ZANDRIE 


ZANDRIE 

BY  MARIAN  EDWARDS  RICHARDS 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  CENTURY  CO. 
NEW  YORK  MCMIX 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published,  September,  1909 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

i    IN  WHICH  THE  FURNESS  BOY  RIDES  BY      .     .  3 

ii   ZANDRIE  OF  THE  CONVENT 15 

in    ZANDRIE  LEARNS  HER  PATER  NOSTER  ...  28 

iv  JULIAN  LEARNS  SOMETHING  TOO 41 

v    DEALING  WITH  TREACHERY 52 

vi    EXPLAINING  HOW  BOBOLINKS  MAY  COME  TO  BE 
AMONG  RAVENS 

vn    CHIEFLY  AT  OUR  LADY'S 

vin    WHEN  BOBOLINKS  FLY  NORTH 

ix   CONTAINING  A  MOMENT  OF  SUSPENSE    .     .     . 
x   THE  MAN  IN  THE  CHAIR 

xi    MORNING 119 

xn   AFTERNOON 135 

xin    NIGHT 146 

xiv   THE  PASSING  OF  THE  NUNS 152 

xv   THE  LYNDES  AND  A  DOCTOR 170 

xvi    AN  AGREEMENT 180 

xvn    THE  FIRST  SUNDAY  IN  JUNE 193. 

xvni   THE  NORTHWEST  WIND 206 

xix   SHOWING  WHICH  HAD  THE  STRONGER  WILL      .  220 

xx   THE  TWINS 229 


2137892 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

xxi   ZANDRIE  MAKES  A  PROMISE 238 

xxii    THE  ROAD 247 

xxm   ZANDRIE  OF  THE  WORLD 261 

xxiv   CONTAINING  LAWYER'S  ADVICE 272 

xxv   IN  THE  CATHOLIC  CHURCH 284 

xxvi    INTERRUPTED 294 

xxvii  CONTAINING  PRIVATE  CORRESPONDENCE     .     .  301 

xxvin  SHORT  BECAUSE  HURRIED    .......  314 

xxix   IN  THE  HOUR  OF  NEED 322 

xxx  " No  PAST  is  MINE  ;  NO  FUTURE"     ....  333 

xxxi    THE  LAST  JOUST ^  .     .     .  345 

xxxn    THE  WHITE  PLUME 362 

xxxin  THE  GARDEN  OF  LOST  DELIGHT  .     ^    .     .     .  373 

XXXIV  WHO  MAY  BE  GARDENERS  OF  PARADISE         .       .  381 


ZANDRIE 


ZANDRIE 

CHAPTER  I 

IN  WHICH  THE  FURNESS  BOY  RIDES  BY 

"  The  soul  of  the  Furness  Boy  ought  to  be  chas- 
tened," Mrs.  Deming  announced  in  the  midst  of  hem- 
ming a  garment  for  The  Poor;  and  the  Ladies'  Aid 
regarded  the  remark  as  an  almost  supernatural  phe- 
nomenon. For  although  she  had  made  it  before, 
neither  she  nor  the  other  ladies  had  mentioned  the 
Furness  Boy  in  months,  and  they  had  been  discussing 
a  rule  for  pickled  apples.  And  the  Boy  himself  was 
supposed  to  be  in  Paris.  Yet  the  words  were  scarcely 
out  of  Mrs.  Deming's  mouth,  when  there  he  was,  gal- 
loping past  the  parsonage  on  his  ill-famed  sorrel 
Toper,  at  the  old  outrageous  speed. 

Mrs.  Summers  was  the  only  one  who  reached  the 
window  in  time  to  identify  his  back.  But  she  had 
identified  it,  so  she  said,  quite  beyond  question. 
Whereupon  question  felt  itself  challenged. 

3 


ZANDRIE 


How  could  she  identify  any  one  a  thousand  miles 
away? 

She  could  n't,  as  Mrs.  Deming  pointed  out,  unless 
this,  the  Deming  parsonage,  was  Paris.  Which  it 
obviously  was  not. 

Though  the  rider  had  disappeared  around  the  corner, 
the  ladies  put  on  their  long  distance  glasses  and 
leaned  out  of  the  window. 

"  It  sounded  like  the  Furness  Boy,"  said  Mrs.  Dem- 
ing's  unmarried  sister. 

"It  couldn't  have,"  said  Mrs.  Deming  herself. 
"  He  's  in  Paris.  A  dreadful  place  for  a  young  man. 
I  always  told  my  son  George  — " 

But  the  other  ladies  were  asking  rhetorically  of  one 
another,  who  else  had  ever  clattered  over  the  cobble- 
stones of  Marshall  street  at  that  lawless  speed?  —  ex- 
cept the  Boy's  own  grandfather,  Colonel  Marshall, 
and  he  was  dead?  And  they  recalled  that  this  was 
how  the  Boy  had  sounded  on  horseback  almost  from 
childhood  —  a  clatter  of  hoofs  like  a  runaway,  break- 
ing in  upon  a  nap,  a  chat,  or  a  game  of  whist,  sfor- 
zando, —  always  a  crash  of  noise  without  a  warning 
crescendo. 

Well,  the  rest  of  them  might  think  what  they 
pleased  and  say  it  too,  but  Mrs.  Summers  had  seen 
his  back;  and  for  all  that  it  was  January,  he  wore  no 
cap,  and  she  saw  his  hair.  The  sun  was  on  it  .  .  . 

But  the  day  was  cloudy! 


THE    FURNESS    BOY    RIDES    BY      5 

However,  the  evidence  was  buttressed  by  that  very 
slip,  as  Mrs.  Deming's  sister  showed,  since  the  charac- 
teristic of  the  Furness  Boy's  hair  was  that  it  always 
shone  as  golden  almost  as  though  the  sun  were  on  it. 

"  His  mother's  hair,"  said  Mrs.  Deming  darkly. 

"  Cut,  I  hope,"  her  sister  amended.  But  the  flip- 
pancy was  ignored,  because  the  ladies  were  now 
mourning  the  absence  of  Mrs.  Fish,  whose  husband 
was  the  Furness  Boy's  guardian  and  ought  to  know 
not  only  whether  the  Boy  had  come  home,  but  why. 

"  My  son  George  ought  to  know."  But  Mrs.  Dem- 
ing  blushed  the  moment  she  said  this ;  for  the  intimacy 
of  her  son  and  the  Furness  Boy  was  something  to 
which  she  seldom  called  attention  —  and  no  wonder, 
in  view  of  the  scandal  involved !  "  George  is  kind  to 
everybody,"  she  added. 

But  her  sister  spared  her  not.  "  George  is  a  dear, 
good  boy,  we  all  know.  But  is  it  charity  of  heart 
when  a  boy  borrows  twenty-five  dollars  of  another,  to 
bet  on  him  in  a  horse  race,  and  wins  fifty?  Of  course 
I  don't  know  how  it  got  doubled  that  way,  but  it 
somehow  does  at  races,  does  n't  it  ?  " 

"  My  son  George  did  n't  borrow  it,  my  dear !  — 
Julian  Furness  lent  it  of  his  own  accord,  to  bet  on  him- 
self and  Toper, —  he  was  so  perfectly  sure  of  win- 
ning. A  very  arrogant  young  man." 

Mrs.  Deming's  sister  suggested  that  the  charity  was 
on  Julian's  part.  Whereupon  the  ladies  charged  her, 


ZANDRIE 


in  chorus,  with  always  taking  the  Furness  Boy's  side. 

"  To  be  sure,  he  has  no  business  to  look  so  like  an 
angel,"  she  said. 

The  chorus  denied  that  he  did  —  except  in  color. 
But  the  Marshalls  all  had  the  same  misleading  com- 
plexion. Even  his  grandfather,  Colonel  Julian  Mar- 
shall, known  to  congenial  spirits  as  Colonel  "  Jehu  " 
—  even  he  had  had  innocent  blue  eyes,  and  innocent 
golden  hair  till  it  turned  still  more  innocent  cream- 
white;  and  he  had  been  a  godless  old  reprobate,  every 
one  knew.  He  had  given  Toper  to  Julian  the  young- 
er, though  the  horse  was  the  best  mount  in  his  stud, 
and  the  agile  old  gentleman  still  rode  in  the  running 
races,  and  rode  to  win.  And  it  was  not  the  only  evi- 
dence either,  that  his  grandson  was  the  apple  of  his 
eye.  He  had  left  him  ninety  thousand  in  his  will,  for 
instance.  The  Ladies'  Aid,  recalling  these  facts, 
agreed  that  the  enthusiastic  regard  of  Colonel  Jehu 
for  young  Julian,  argued  community  of  soul. 

And  of  course  being  the  offspring  of  Marjorie 
Marshall  could  not  be  to  any  one's  credit.  And  the 
Furness  Boy  was  her  son. 

"  How  Wilton  Furness  could  marry  that  wom- 
an— !"  The  Society  scarcely  ever  finished  its  sen- 
tences on  the  subject  of  Marjorie  Marshall;  and  if 
young  persons  were  in  the  room,  it  lowered  its 
voice.  For,  three  years  after  marrying  Mr.  Furness, 
when  their  son  Julian  was  two  years  old,  she  eloped 
with  a  navy  officer. 


THE    FUR  NESS    BOY    RIDES    BY      7 

"Of  course  it 's  not  nice  to  run  away  with  Captain 
Roswells  when  you  're  married  already," —  Mrs.  Dem- 
ing's  sister  said  it  quite  aloud  — "  especially  when  you 
married  on  a  wager.  Still,  it 's  so  much  a  matter  of 
bringing  up!  Of  course  we  'd  have  had  to  kill  our- 
selves in  her  place." 

"MYRA!"  the  chorus  shouted, —  though  with 
decorum. 

"  I  mean,  if  we  'd  found  ourselves  married  to  Wil- 
ton Furness,"  said  Miss  Myra.  "  Myself,  I  'd  just 
as  soon  espouse  the  ice-chest." 

"  Wilton  Furness  was  the  best  parishioner  Mr. 
Deming  ever  had,"  said  Mrs.  Deming. 

"  Just  the  trouble !  —  too  good  to  live  with !  .  .  . 
I  take  it  that  Captain  Roswell  is  n't.  I  wonder  now, 
how  he  and  Marjorie  do  get  on  together  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Deming  considered  Marjorie  Marshall  and 
the  Captain  not  a  nice  subject  of  conversation. 
"  Though  of  course,"  she  said,  "  they  're  married 
now;  "  and  the  ladies  agreed  that  that  made  all  the 
difference.  Mrs.  Deming's  sister  added  that  she 
thought  it  frightful  of  Wilton  Furness  not  to  have 
divorced  his  wife  — "  frightfully  dog-in-the-manger- 
ish, —  or  the  other  animal  concerned  in  the  manger 
business, —  mulish,  you  know." 

"  It  was  a  horse,"  said  Mrs.  Deming  with  dig- 
nity; and  then  agreed  with  the  Society  that  it  was 
unbecoming  to  criticise  a  parishioner  now  in  his  grave, 
—  whose  life,  too,  had  been  such  a  living  death. 


8  ZANDRIE 

Poor  Mr.  Wilton  Furness !  —  never  a  merry  soul 
at  best!  After  his  wife's  defection,  he  had  moved 
out  to  an  estate  two  miles  from  town  and  allowed 
never  a  woman  to  cross  his  dishonored  threshold. 
And  although  his  son  Julian  was  with  him,  yet  he 
lived  there  to  all  intents  alone ;  for  what  time  the  Boy 
was  not  on  horseback  or  wriggling  in  his  seat  at 
school,  he  was  making  music.  And  Mr.  Wilton  Fur- 
ness  had  no  ear,  nor  even  a  liking  for  music.  So  one 
can  imagine  the  evenings  there, —  the  father  shut  off 
in  some  ell  with  his  documents  and  cigars,  desperately 
patient  with  the  strains  that  trespassed  through  the 
keyhole, —  the  son  in  his  vault  of  a  drawing-room, 
playing  out  his  unchastened  soul  to  undusted  walls. 

Julian  played  well,  every  one  owned.  Even  when 
he  refused  to  cross  the  church  threshold  except  as 
organist  and  choir-master,  the  committee  agreed  that 
he  played  better  than  the  musician  already  installed. 
"  Of  course.  That 's  why  I  offered,"  he  is  said  to 
have  said.  But  the  committee  shook  their  heads  re- 
gretfully; and  Mr.  Wilton  Furness  had  to  come  to 
church  from  that  time  forth  alone.  Even  at  Gray 
Summer's  party,  where  Julian  conducted  himself  so 
outrageously,  he  had  played  divinely.  Oh,  but  how 
he  behaved  first! 

It  was  an  old-fashioned  party  to  which  both  old 
and  young  were  asked,  but  of  course  Mr.  Wilton  Fur- 
ness  had  not  accepted.  His  son  had,  though,  perhaps 


THE    FURNESS    BOY    RIDES    BY      9 

not  knowing  that  Mrs.  Summers  had  all  but  decided 
not  to  invite  him !  "  And  you  see  I  was  right !  "  she 
said.  For  her  daughter  Gray,  finding  herself  some- 
how alone  with  him,  reproved  him  for  his  Sabbath 
backsliding;  and  he  bent  with  such  gracious  heed  and 
a  smile  so  beguiling,  that  she  even  asked  a  promise  of 
reform.  To  which,  "  Bless  your  heart!  "  he  had  an- 
swered, "  you  're  a  right  dear  little  rascal," —  she  was 
seventeen  — "  and  I  '11  promise  —  solemnly  —  to  kiss 
you."  Perhaps  Dr.  Summers  was  to  blame  for  Jul- 
ian's keeping  his  word  that  very  evening.  Perhaps 
the  Furness  Boy  would  have  done  it  anyway.  But  at 
all  events,  the  Doctor  himself  set  an  egg  on  the  floor 
in  a  corner,  defied  the  decorous  company  to  break 
that  egg  with  a  peck  measure,  and  promised  with  a 
mighty  laugh,  that  whoever  succeeded  should  kiss  the 
prettiest  girl  in  the  room.  Any  one  who  has  studied 
the  subject  of  peck  measures,  corners,  and  eggs,  knows 
that  Gray  had  reason  to  feel  secure.  Yet  upon  the 
laughter  and  confusion  came  a  crash,  and  lo !  —  one 
blow  of  the  Furness  Boy's  heel  had  annihilated  both 
measure  and  egg.  And  then,  without  apology  for  the 
debris,  serenely  heedless  of  denunciation,  he  took  his 
reward.  If  he  had  blushed  even  ever  so  slightly 
.  .  .  But  he  laughed  instead;  and  at  sight  of  the 
grotesque  havoc  in  the  corner,  he  laughed  again.  And 
Gray  declared  that  she  HATED  him.  And  all  this 
after  his  playing  the  Moonlight  Sonata  even  to  the 


io  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


moving  of  Mrs.  Deming!  It  was  then  that  she  first 
uttered  her  famous  dictum  that  his  spirit  needed  to 
be  chastened. 

Perhaps  it  did,  if  those  who  knew  his  mother,  Mar- 
jorie  Marshall,  were  right  in  recognizing  his  spirit  as 
hers. 

When  the  Ladies'  Aid  took  up  the  question  of  who 
taught  him  to  play  the  organ,  suspicion  pounced  upon 
a  Russian  with  preposterously  long  white  whiskers, 
who  conducted  a  riotous  —  or  certainly  Bohemian  — 
existence  over  the  music  store.  Mrs.  Fish  said  that 
he  was  an  exile  —  a  nihilist,  and  had  thrown  bombs 
at  something  or  somebody  somewhere  —  she  hoped  it 
was  in  Russia.  And  although  —  or  perhaps  because 
—  she  always  said  things  positively,  she  was  believed. 
And  Mrs.  Deming  was  believed  when  she  reported 
platoons  of  horrid  bottles  parading  the  nihilist's  win- 
dow sills;  she  had  seen  them  from  her  dressmaker's 
back  windows.  But  when  asked  if  their  contents 
were  really  spirituous,  she  retorted  that  she  was  not 
a  connoisseur.  Heaven  knows  she  was  not!  But 
Julian's  organ  teacher,  whatever  he  was  or  did,  cer- 
tainly abetted  the  boy  in  his  lawless  ways,  for  he  had 
learned  to  play  during  hours  that  he  ought  to  have 
spent  on  Greek.  His  schoolmaster  said  so. 

When  he  was  graduating  from  school  in  his  nine- 
teenth year,  his  father  died,  and  the  Ladies'  Aid,  dis- 
cussing the  effects  of  sudden  death,  began  to  look  for 
a  change  of  heart.  Mrs.  Fish  had  said  positively  that 


THE    FURNESS    BOY    RIDES    BY    n 

he  was  going  to  do  what  his  father  wished,  and  go  to 
college,  using  the  old  Marshall  house  on  Marshall 
street  as  his  headquarters  during  vacation.  The  plan 
seemed  both  respectable  and  sane,  and  Mrs.  Deming's 
sister  began  to  speak  of  him  as  Mr.  Julian  Furness. 
There  was  something  in  his  mien,  she  said,  that  im- 
posed respect  —  something  subtler  than  six  feet  of 
superb  physique  clad  in  black,  or  the  assured  poise  of 
his  head.  And  even  when  he  rode  a  steeple-chase  ten 
days  after  his  father's  funeral,  the  ladies  made  ex- 
cuses and  agreed  it  was  early  yet  for  a  thorough 
change  of  heart.  But  two  weeks  later,  news  had  smit- 
ten the  Society,  that  caused  it  to  throw  up  its  hands 
in  a  full  half-minute's  silence,  and  then  audibly  to 
abandon  hope  of  the  Furness  Boy.  For,  the  Furness 
estate  was  sold  to  a  Roman  Catholic  sisterhood;  the 
Marshall  house,  leased  to  Jews;  and  the  Boy  himself, 
in  the  thrall  of  the  nihilist,  was  bound  for  —  Paris. 
.  Yes,  it  was  true.  The  Jews  moved  into  the  house 
on  Marshall  street  —  opposite  the  Deming  parsonage. 
The  nuns  began  to  fortify  the  Furness  estate  with  a 
high  cement  wall,  to  metamorphose  the  Furness  house 
into  a  retreat  house,  and  to  lay  foundations  for  their 
convent  and  chapel.  And  as  for  the  graceless  heir 
who  had  sold  his  birthright —  Well,  Mrs.  Deming 
herself  saw  the  nihilist  on  his  way  to  the  railroad  sta- 
tion ;  saw  his  pace  that  was  fairly  a  cavort ;  saw  a  port- 
manteau —  bulging  with  who  knew  what  ?  —  in  either 
hand,  and  a  fur  cap  pulled  down  to  his  eyes,  though 


12  ZANDRIE 


the  day  was  a  scorcher;  saw  his  whiskers  streaming 
out  behind  like  flags  of  a  false  truce;  and  she  saw  the 
son  of  Marjorie  Marshall  striding  in  shameless  fealty 
at  his  heels.  Oh,  it  was  all  true. 

As  for  Julian's  career  in  Paris,  what  should  the 
Ladies'  Aid  know  of  that?  But  it  surmised.  And 
at  last  George  Deming  graduated  from  college,  be- 
came engaged  to  Gray  Summers,  and  went  to  Paris 
to  study  at  the  Sorbonne;  and  a  letter  to  Gray  re- 
ported of  his  townsman  as  follows :  "  Furness  is 
here, —  one  of  the  most  joyous  spirits  of  this  Quartier, 
to  which  neither  of  us  belong  by  rights,  but  I  '11  ex- 
plain about  that  later.  I  found  him  playing  a  card 
game  that  my  dear  little  Gray  would  call  mighty 
wicked,  for  oh,  oh!  he  had  a  pile  of  money  in  front 
of  him!  It  was  in  a  wicked  little  cafe  too,  and  you 
ought  to  have  seen  the  chaps  he  'd  been  playing  with ! 
—  such  villainous  black  beards !  Well,  up  he  jumped, 
and  was  for  sitting  down  with  me  at  another  table 
and  forgetting  all  about  that  naughty  pile  of  money 
till  his  bearded  friends  reminded  him.  Do  you  know, 
I  *m  afraid  he  really  is  a  rather  wild  duck  now.  I 
reckon  our  ways  won't  cross  much,  for  I  'm  in  this 
glorious  old  village  for  work."  Et  cetera,  very  im- 
pressive. 

But  he  was  mistaken  about  the  crossing  of  ways. 
In  a  letter  to  his  brother,  for  instance  —  which  Gray 
never  saw  till  after  becoming  Mrs.  George  —  he  de- 
scribed another  meeting.  It  was  again  in  a  cafe,  and 


THE    FURNESS    BOY    RIDES    BY    13 

late  in  the  evening, —  very  late.  And  this  time  Julian 
was  absorbing  the  attention  of  a  lady  of  the  minor 
opera,  whose  popularity  was  at  its  giddy  zenith. 
Though  her  cigarette  had  gone  out,  Julian's  had  not, — 
a  detail  that  George  found  significant.  Among  her 
satellites  revolving  at  a  prudent  distance  was  a  "  thread 
of  an  Italian,  whose  extraordinary  bitterness  of  smile 
and  capacity  for  wine  interested  me/'  wrote  the  chron- 
icler, "  till  of  a  sudden  he  tiptoed  up  behind  the  girl, 
and  with  the  dark  request  to  take  that  home  to  her 
maman,  poured  a  glassful  of  claret  over  her  shoulders. 
He  himself  fell  —  not  gently  —  on  the  table.  But 
Furness  wrapped  the  girl  in  her  cloak  very  quietly, 
and  took  her  to  the  street,  where  he  dispatched  her 
in  a  cab.  When  he  came  back,  the  Italian  had  been 
whisked  out  of  sight,  but  some  one  called  '  We  '11  catch 
him  for  your  breakfast ; '  and  Furness's  remarks  as 
he  stood  there  in  the  doorway,  were  as  picturesque 
as  his  appearance,  which  I  wanted  to  paint,  if  only 
for  the  public  to  help  me  decide  whether  it  was  more 
diabolical  or  avenging-angelical.  After  he  'd  gone, 
I  began  to  catch  stray  beams  of  light  on  the  situa- 
tion, in  which  our  countryman's  part  shone  bright  at 
least  by  contrast.  *  One  sees  that  the  lady  is  in  love 
with  him/  I  put  in;  whereupon  a  man  with  a  whole 
bush  of  beard  informed  me  ruefully  that  it  was  too 
late  for  me  to  be  up.  But  I  noticed  my  remark  be- 
came a  bone  of  frantic  contention." 

Well,  the  main  interest  of  the  incident  is  in  its 


14  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


after  effect  on  the  Furness  Boy,  who  for  the  next  two 
days  spoke  little  and  made  no  music  whatever,  and 
for  a  whole  week  walked  the  straightest  and  narrow- 
est of  paths  to  be  found  in  that  merry  Quartier.  Per- 
haps it  was  only  that  his  aesthetic  sense  had  been 
shocked  to  revolt.  So  George  Deming  thought.  Or 
perhaps  whatever  of  his  father  lurked  in  the  son's 
queerly  compounded  nature,  had  come  into  temporary 
control.  The  two  days'  silence  suggests  Mr.  Wilton 
Furness. 

And  now  without  warning,  Toper's  hoofs  were  beat- 
ing their  Devil's  tattoo  on  the  frozen  ground,  and 
the  Furness  Boy  was  back.  Mrs.  Fish  said  later 
that  it  was  merely  to  attend  to  business  relating  to 
his  coming  of  age;  but  the  Ladies'  Aid  had  its  doubts 
about  that. 

Few  saw  him  on  that  day  of  his  reappearance,  per- 
haps because  he  rode  so  fast  that  one  had  no  time. 
Gray  Summers  said  that  he  was  singing.  Some  one 
else  caught  the  sound  of  a  reckless  laugh.  And  when 
Mrs.  Deming  learned  why  no  one  saw  him  come  back 
from  that  ride,  she  shut  herself  in  her  kitchen,  where 
she  produced,  besides  a  batch  of  pickled  apples,  a 
storiette  for  the  Sabbath  School  Bugle,  ending  with 
the  words,  "  For  the  ways  of  the  Lord  are  just  and 
righteous  altogether." 


CHAPTER  II 

ZANDRIE  OF  THE  CONVENT 

As  for  Zandrie,  if  it  seems  a  pity  to  introduce  her 
clenching  her  fists  and  stamping  with  rage,  please  con- 
sider that  but  for  this  tantrum  she  would  not  have 
been  ordered  to  spend  the  night  in  the  retreat-house, 
and  that  her  whole  life  might  have  been  another  mat- 
ter. For,  though  she  was  outrageously  naughty 
much  of  the  time,  especially  since  coming  to  the  con- 
vent, this  was  an  epoch-marking  tantrum  both  by  vir- 
tue of  its  fury  and  because  of  the  curious  part  it 
played  as  link  in  the  chain  of  cause  and  effect  be- 
tween her  first  two  glimpses  of  the  Knight,  as  it 
pleased  her  to  call  him.  The  first  had  lured  her  into 
disobedience  of  that  strictest  of  orders  never  to  leave 
the  grounds ;  thence  to  a  battle  with  the  Sub-Prioress, 
her  sister.  And  now,  as  usual,  she  was  denying  that 
she  was  at  all  sorry.  "  You  can  make  me  go  without 
my  supper,"  she  added,  "  only  you  won't  'cause  you  're 
afraid  of  committing  murder.  I  wish  you  would; 
I  'd  like  to  die." 

"  That  is  wicked,"  said  Sister  Angela. 

"  That 's  why  I  said  it." 

is 


16  ZANDRIE 

The  nun  shut  her  lips  tight  before  pronouncing  her 
sentence;  "You  shall  go  back  to  the  retreat-house 
again  to-night.  Meanwhile  you  shall  stay  in  this  cell 
till  bed-time  —  on  your  honor  not  to  leave  it  —  and 
have  bread  and  water  for  supper."  She  said  it  in  a 
voice  controlled  almost  to  suffocation.  Then  she 
swept  from  the  room. 

"I  —  don't  —  care  —  and  —  I  'm  —  not  —  sor- 
ry ! "  Zandrie  screamed,  stamping  on  each  word. 

But  when  the  sound  of  Sister  Angela's  footsteps 
had  died  away,  she  collapsed  on  the  floor  and  wailed. 
For  it  was  no  light  punishment,  this,  of  a  night  in  the 
retreat-house,  all  alone  but  for  that  uncanny  couple, 
the  deaf  and  dumb  janitor  and  his  wife;  and  she  knew 
that  she  must  be  alone,  as  it  was  not  the  night  for 
Father  Haggarty's  coming,  and  no  other  guest  had  ar- 
rived in  several  weeks.  No  light  punishment,  as  she 
knew  too  well,  having  cried  herself  sick  in  that  re- 
treat-house room  on  the  third  night  after  her  coming. 
And  to  think  it  had  once  been  intended  that  she 
should  sleep  there  forever !  But  after  that  third  night 
of  panic,  from  which  she  had  emerged  so  pitiful  an 
object  that  Sister  Loyola  put  her  to  bed  in  the  in- 
firmary,—  after  that,  merciful  Reverend  Mother  had 
given  her  a  cell  in  the  lay  sisters'  quarters  within  the 
convent  itself,  and  allowed  her  to  eat  with  the  Sister 
Refectorian  and  the  weekly  servers.  Even  these 
meals  were  not  hilarious,  to  be  sure,  being  eaten  in 
profound  silence;  but  one  had  the  comfort  of  knowing 


ZANDRIE    OF    THE    CONVENT       17 

at  least  that  if  a  body  did  speak,  her  voice  would  be 
heard.  No  one  in  the  refectory  was  deaf  or  really 
dumb;  whereas  the  terror  of  the  retreat-house  was, 
that  unless  a  guest  were  at  hand,  one  might  scream 
and  scream  and  never  be  heard.  And  so,  "  I  do 
care !  "  she  was  sobbing  now,  "  And  I  wish  he  had  n't 
passed."  But  she  buried  her  face  in  her  little  black 
skirt,  of  course,  lest  some  one  should  hear  and  per- 
chance think  she  was  sorry  after  all. 

Her  rage  tried  to  turn  against  the  Knight,  for 
though  he  would  doubtless  rescue  her  some  day,  this 
was  meanwhile  very  much  his  fault.  But  for  him, 
she  wrould  have  sat  quiet  on  the  wall,  content  to  taste 
the  ecstasies  of  flight  in  anticipation.  But  the  wild 
rhythm  of  hoofs  on  the  frozen  ground  had  stirred 
her  blood;  and  then  came  the  Knight  himself. 

For  he  was  really  the  Knight  —  that  was  the  won- 
der —  who  had  been  for  so  long  the  star  of  that  play- 
house where  she  herself  was  audience,  stage-manager, 
and  leading  lady.  The  dramas  of  the  Knight,  and 
they  were  many,  had  started  from  a  dream  in  which 
a  person  of  mediaeval  aspect  offered  to  carry  her  on 
his  horse  to  a  place  called  Dedham,  which  she  knew 
to  be  a  stronghold  rival  to  Camelot.  But  in  the  dream, 
he  had  looked  rather  like  the  taller  of  those  two  poor 
Princes  in  the  Tower,  in  a  picture  that  used  to  hang 
over  her  bed,  and  she  had  changed  him  a  little  after 
she  woke,  inasmuch  as  a  knight  who  should  rescue  one 
from  walls  guarded  by  Sister  Angelas,  must  be  more 


i8  ZANDRIE 


commanding  of  eye  and  bulk.  And  lo!  as  she  sat  on 
the  wall,  he  was  there,  riding  before  her  in  garish  day- 
light. Whose  heart  would  not  have  leapt  at  sight 
of  his  hair,  crisp  and  gleaming  in  the  sun  that  had 
come  out  just  the  very  minute  before  he  passed?  And 
though  his  passing  was  as  the  passing  of  a  dream,  yet 
he  was  real  from  the  soles  of  his  boots,  all  the  way 
up  his  magnificent,  supple  back  to  the  laugh  and  ring- 
ing "  Hello !  "  flung  to  her  over  his  shoulder.  No 
wonder  that  he  laughed  at  sight  of  her  perched  like  a 
blackbird  there  on  the  wall!  And  who  would  have 
stayed  from  following?  Whose  heart  would  not  beat 
high  at  a  dream  come  true  ? 

But  by  the  time  that  she  had  dropped  to  the 
ground,  he  had  turned  down  a  road  that  cut  deep  into 
the  woods;  and  then  the  road  itself  twisted  so  that 
when  she  came  all  out  of  breath  to  its  entrance,  there 
was  nothing  to  tell  of  him  but  a  far-away  beat  of 
hoofs  on  frozen  ground.  But  that  he  would  come 
back,  she  never  doubted.  So  she  scampered  for  the 
pure  joy  of  it  through  the  good,  gray  woods,  all  still 
but  for  the  crunch  of  her  feet  on  fallen  twigs.  She 
jumped  over  hummocks  and  logs  till  breath  failed; 
then  she  walked  till  hunger  sharply  advised  her  to  turn 
about. 

Of  course  it  was  long  past  the  hour  for  the  noon 
meal  when  she  reached  the  convent,  and  although  she 
tried  hard  to  be  glad,  an  ignominious  weariness  laid 
cold  hands  on  her  glee.  In  fact,  when  she  found  that 


ZANDRIE    OF    THE    CONVENT       19 

there  was  no  friendly  peach  tree  by  which  one  might 
scale  the  wall  from  the  outside  and  that  she  must 
ring  at  the  gate,  she  was  only  shivering  and  cross  and 
defiant. 

As  the  chapel  clock  was  striking  four,  a  nun  opened 
Zandrie's  door  very  softly  and  peeped  around  its  edge. 
"  Sister  Isidore !  "  Zandrie  whispered,  smiling.  Five 
minutes  later  she  was  laughing  immoderately,  and  at 
last,  "  I  do  love  you,"  she  protested,  "  even  if  you  are 
a  nun,  and  even  if  you  do  like  Sister  Angela,  and  — " 
But  she  left  off  so  suddenly  that  Sister  Isidore  made 
a  guilty  start  towards  the  floor.  Zandrie  was  at  the 
window.  "  Look !  Quick !  It 's  one  of  the  novices 
running  right  across  the  flower-beds  as  though  the 
Devil  were  after  her!  Her  veil 's  askew!  Let 's  go 
and  —  Oh-h !  I  forgot.  O,  I  hate  honor!  " 

"  But  it 's  me  that  must  go,"  said  the  Sister,  "  or 
the  dear  Mother  will  be  locking  me  up  too." 

Zandrie  of  course  clung  to  her  skirt.  "  If  the 
Mother  comes,  you  can  pop  under  the  bed !  " 

But  the  nun  jerked  away,  for  a  voice  in  the  corridor 
was  calling.  And  voices  seldom  called  in  the  convent. 
Sister  Isidore  sped  down  the  hall,  running  almost  as 
fast  as  the  novice. 

Long  after  her  skirt  had  whisked  out  of  sight,  Zan- 
drie stood  on  the  threshold  listening  to  sounds  that 
were  strange  enough  in  a  place  where  people  stepped 
and  spoke  as  though  some  one  perpetually  ill  were 
within  ear-shot.  Now  a  door  actually  slammed,  and 


20  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


another  nun  scurried  along,  and  after  her,  the  plump 
Prioress  herself.  One  of  Zandrie's  feet  crossed  the 
sill.  For  a  full  minute  the  battle  raged.  It  ended  in 
her  wheeling  about,  an  honorable  but  very  sullen  pris- 
oner. 

The  view  from  the  window  gave  no  clue  to  the  com- 
motion. Nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  cloister  garden, 
which  was  now  just  a  dingy  carpet  of  triangles  and 
squares  outlined  in  frozen  green;  the  arcade  of  the 
cloister  itself,  eclipsed  below  the  window  by  its  own 
narrow,  green-tiled  roof;  above  the  arcade  opposite, 
the  red  brick  side  of  the  church  adjoining  the  convent 
walls  at  right  angles  on  either  hand, —  over  all,  a 
January  sky  that  promised  to  snow  without  keeping 
its  word.  No  flying  snow-flakes;  no  more  flying 
white  veils  askew, —  nor  even  a  decorously  draped 
black  one.  But  how  the  novice  had  run,  as  though 
from  the  memory  of  some  evil  sight!  The  very  line 
of  her  footsteps  looked  ill-drawn  as  by  a  hand  nervous 
with  hurry. 

Presently,  all  interest  in  the  subject  sank  under  the 
heavy  thought  that  supper  —  such  as  it  was  —  would 
not  come  for  a  whole  hour.  The  memory  of  the 
Knight  no  longer  heartened  her;  and  so,  too  tired  to 
concoct  a  recipe  of  new  naughtiness,  she  turned  to  her 
box  of  treasures.  But  the  collar  of  the  late  Launcelot, 
her  cat,  filled  her  with  anguish  only.  So,  too,  the 
crisp  Bible  substituted  by  Sister  Angela  for  the  shabby 


ZAXDRIE    OF    THE    CONVENT      21 

volume  that  had  been  Mam'selle's  parting  gift.  Sister 
Angela's  had  more  books,  to  be  sure,  with  most  curious 
names,  and  smelt  pleasantly  of  new  leather;  but  it  was 
not  Mam'selle's  keepsake.  As  for  the  gold  eagle  that 
her  father  had  given  her  on  her  tenth  birthday  four 
months  before,  it  was  the  same  gold-piece  that  Mam'- 
selle  said  would  buy  her  heart's  desire,  which  Zandrie 
had  at  once  defined  as  "  une  petite  villa  de  rideaux 
rouges,"  to  which  Mam'selle  and  Mickie  the  stable  boy 
were  to  be  invited  for  long  visits.  Yet  to-day  she 
could  not  even  see  the  villa.  And  when  the  gift  of 
seeing  failed,  Zandrie  was  in  a  bad  way  indeed. 

The  long  hour  dragged  itself  out.  The  bell  tolled 
for  Vespers;  the  nuns  sang  their  office.  Then  the 
clink  of  dishes  below,  and  the  server's  chant,  and  the 
drone  of  the  reader's  voice  told  of  the  convent  sup- 
per; but  no  one  came,  even  with  bread  and  water,  to 
where  she  sat  in  the  dark.  And  another  hour  crept 
by,  and  yet  another,  till  the  Compline  bell  rang  and 
she  knew  that  she  was  forgotten. 

Next,  behold  her  with  her  nightgown  under  her 
arm,  marching  to  the  room  in  the  retreat-house  where 
Sister  Angela  had  decreed  that  she  should  sleep.  Yes, 
she  would  go  to  bed  there  and  die  of  starvation  and 
honor  —  gladly  die!  And  Sister  Angela  would  lose 
at  one  swoop  all  the  years  wrested  at  such  pains  from 
Purgatory.  Sister  Angela  would  be  sorry. 

She  undressed  and  curled  up  in  the  big,  cold  bed, 


22  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


and  so,  for  full  fifteen  minutes,  lay  waiting  for  death. 
Then  with  a  little,  angry  scream  she  bounced  up,  and 
strode  down  the  hall  in  her  nightgown. 

She  had  met  no  one  on  her  way  through  the  con- 
vent, both  nuns  and  lay  sisters  being  still  in  church. 
In  the  retreat-house,  a  light  had  shone  through  the 
half-open  door  of  the  janitor's  room  on  the  ground 
floor,  but  the  halls  had  been  quite  dark  except  for  the 
moon  that  laid  a  ghostly  .patch  of  light  on  the  stair 
landing.  Yet  now  a  yellow  glimmer  filtered  through 
the  crack  of  a  door  on  the  second  floor.  It  was  the 
door  of  Father  Haggarty's  room.  And  this  was  not 
the  night  of  his  weekly  visit. 

Yet,  if  it  might  be  he,  a  good  friend  was  at  hand. 
"  Father !  "  she  whispered  at  the  crack.  No  answer. 
So  she  pushed  the  door  far  enough  to  peer  around  it. 
There  was  no  one  to  be  seen;  yet  a  candle  burned 
on  the  mantle-shelf,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with  a 
subtly  disagreeable,  medicinal  odor.  As  she  was  turn- 
ing away  bewildered,  her  glance  fell  on  the  bed  in  the 
corner,  and  then  a  little  "  Oh !  "  broke  from  her,  for 
somebody  lay  in  the  bed,  peacefully  sleeping. 

Who  could  it  be?  Father  Haggarty  would  have 
made  a  very  great  mountain  of  the  bed-clothes.  Had 
a  guest  come,  then,  without  her  knowledge,  and  one 
entitled  to  the  honor  of  Father  Haggarty's  quar- 
ters? It  must  be  a  very  pious  lady  indeed!  And 
why  had  she  gone  to  bed  so  early,  with  her  candle 
burning?  Curiosity  sent  her  tiptoeing  in.  But  when 


ZANDRIE   OF   THE   CONVENT      23 

she  reached  the  bed-side,  amazement  smote  her  so 
that  she  almost  toppled  forward  on  to  the  sleeper ;  for 
it  was  neither  a  pious  lady,  nor  a  nun,  nor  even  a 
priest,  but  an  ordinary  man.  And  men  are  never, 
never  allowed  inside  even  the  retreat-house  of  St. 
Scholastica's,  unless  they  are  priests  or  old,  deaf  jan- 
itors, or  carry  charcoal  stoves  to  mend  the  roof.  She 
had  met  one  such  creature  skulking  very  guiltily 
through  Seven  Holy  Founders'  Corridor  itself.  And 
as  this  man  in  the  bed  was  obviously  neither  roof- 
mender  nor  priest,  and  was,  moreover,  pale  and  dread- 
fully still,  with  scratches  across  his  left  cheek,  it 
seemed  certain  that  something  interesting  had  hap- 
pened. 

She  stood  staring  at  the  fair  hair  and  closed  eye- 
lids and  lips,  and  again  at  the  hair,  which  was  almost 
as  charming  as  the  Knight's.  Her  Knight !  Remem- 
brance of  him  brought  a  shock.  It  could  n't  possibly 
be  that  this  —  O  sakes  alive  no !  For  the  Knight  was 
a  radiant  creature,  all  vigor  and  life;  and  this  poor 
thing  was  pale  and  limp.  And  yet  the  face  was  come- 
ly, and  the  hair —  Yes  and  No  fought  in  her  brain 
till  she  gasped.  It  could  n't  be  —  it  must  be  —  the 
Knight ! 

There  is  no  telling  how  long  she  might  have  stood 
before  this  mystery,  had  not  an  arm  been  slipped  about 
her,  drawing  her  back.  It  was  Sister  Isidore's. 

"  Is  he  alive  ?  "  Zandrie  asked.  She  had  not  told 
even  Sister  Isidore  about  any  Knight. 


24  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


"  Come  away,  dear  heart,"  was  all  her  answer,  "  or 
it 's  not  long  ye  '11  be  living  yourself,  shivering  about 
in  your  nightie  and  bare  toes." 

Whereupon,  the  nun  bore  her  ruthlessly  out  of  the 
room  and  back  to,  her  convent  cell, —  just  when  the 
retreat-house  had  begun  to  seem  not  such  an  evil  place 
after  all !  But  the  bread  and  butter  that  awaited  her 
in  the  cell  were  a  change  for  the  better.  Sister  An- 
gela had  remembered  at  last,  and  detailed  Sister  Isi- 
dore to  see  to  the  prisoner. 

"  I  was  to  have  only  bread  and  water,"  Zandrie  con- 
fessed. 

"  Aha !  But  Sister  Angela  '11  never  know  —  though 
Father  Thomas  shall,  to  be  sure.  Ye  're  to  eat  every 
morsel,  now,  because  I  tell  ye." 

Zandrie  chuckled.  "  But  I  don't  want  him  to  die !  " 
she  broke  off  in  the  midst  of  a  bite  to  exclaim. 

"  And'  perhaps  he  '11  oblige  ye." 

u  Will  he  stay  if-  he  does  n't  die  ?  " 

"  Not  long,  I  'm  thinking.  There  was  enough  to- 
do  about  his  coming  in  at  all.  Sister  Angela  was  for 
turning  him  off  entirely." 

"  Gracious  me!  How  did  he  get  past  her?;"  The 
feat  appeared  both  phenomenal  and  heroic.  But  then, 
remembering  the  commotion,  she  understood  in  a  flash. 
It  was  the  Knight.  And  he  was  even  such  a  knight 
as  he  looked,  who,  having  seen  her  dismal  estate  on 
the  wall,  had  ridden  back  to  the  rescue  and  no  sooner 
hewn  a  hole  big  enough  to  squeeze  through,  than  the 


ZANDRIE   OF   THE   CONVENT      25 

novice  had  given  the  alarm  and  the  whole  sisterhood 
set  upon  him,  thirty  to  one.  Yet  even  this  hardly  ex- 
plained his  being  in  Father  Haggarty's  bed.  How  did 
he  get  in  then  ?  she  had  to  ask. 

"  For  one  thing,  he  would  keep  saying  this  was  his 
home ;  and  there  '11  be  no  one  to  tell  what  he  meant, 
either,  for  it  was  the  last  thing  he  — " 

"  No,  no !  Begin  at  the  beginning  —  with  the  nov- 
ice." 

"  Eh,  but  it  never  began  with  her !  Saints  forbid ! 
It  all  came  of  his  horse  that  Sister  Euphrasie  hears 
galloping  in  the  lane;  for  Sister  Xavier  gave  her  a 
little  dispense  from  Instruction,  ye  know,  to  go  walk 
once  about  the  grounds,  she  's  so  pale  to-day.  And 
then  she  hears  a  queer,  dreadful  sound  and  peeps 
through  the  keyhole  of  the  big  gate  —  which  she 
never  ought,  but  custody  of  the  eyes  is  easy  to  for- 
get even  when  a  body  's  professed ;  that 's  sure !  And 
the  keyhole  's  that  big  that  she  sees  the  horse  toppled 
over  in  the  ditch,  and  the  poor  lad  —  I  say  ye  're  to 
drink  your  milk  right  down!  " 

"  O  quick !  —  go  on !  " 

"  What !  and  me  running  on  like  this  in  the  Great 
Silence  time  itself! "  Sister  Isidore  tucked  her  hands 
in  her  sleeves  and  started  for  the  door. 

"  But  you  have  n't  told !  "  cried  Zandrie. 

"  Well  then !  but  ye  're  not  to  make  free  with  my 
veil,  or  —  Ye  '11  be  the  ruin  of  a  poor  nun !  Come, 
then  —  and  where  were  we  at  ?  Sure,  at  the  keyhole ! 


26  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


And  then  comes  Sister  Euphrasie  running  from  the 
gate  up  to  the  work-room  where  we  're  sitting  sewing 
as  quiet  as  birds  in  the  night  —  only  myself  was  n't 
there,  come  to  think  —  and  she  calls  Mother,  and 
Mother  sends  Sister  Loyola  calling  Sister  Rose  from 
the  linen  closet  —  she  's  so  tall  and  strong  —  and 
then  she  meets  myself  in  Seven  Holy  Founders',  and 
that  makes  four,  ye  see.  '  One  for  each  paw ! '  says 
Mother, —  for  we  've  opened  the  gate  now  and  laid 
hold  of  the  horse  that 's  flat  on  his  side.  *  Now,'  says 
Mother,  '  pull  hard !  One,  two,  three ! '  But  the 
creature  never  stirs,  it 's  so  heavy  and  great,  and  the 
dear  Mother  slips  on  the  ice.  So  then  we  go  fetch 
Sister  Gertrude  for  his  head  and  Sister  Angela  for 
his  tail." 

"  O  poor  beastie !  " 

"  Eh,  but  it 's  dead,  ye  see,  and  done  with  trouble. 
It's  'poor  rider,'  though;  for  it  was  himself  we  were 
trying  to  dislodge  from  under,  and  he  never  lost  him- 
self till  we  took  him  up,  and  it 's  a  mercy  he  's  not 
in  his  senses  yet.  But  sure,  we  had  to  take  him  up, 
for,  don't  ye  see,  the  telephone  's  stopped  working  en- 
tirely to-day,  and  Father  Thomas,  he  was  off  with  the 
horse  to  fetch  home  the  grand  new  monstrance,  and 
the  lad  could  never  be  lying  in  the  ditch  till  old  Mc- 
Clung  footed  it  to  town  for  a  doctor  and  wagon. 
And  then,  his  falling  right  at  our  gate  —  that 's  to  be 
thought  of,  as  Sister  Rose  said  herself.  Come  now, 
but  it's  no  such  matter:  there's  thousands  of  poor 


ZANDRIE    OF    THE    CONVENT       27 

souls  —  But  ye  can  pray  for  him  to  the  dear  Virgin, 
and  no  harm  done  by  that.  And  I  'd  put  up  a  prayer 
to  good  Saint  Polycarp  too,  that  would  n't  revile  Our 
Lord  to  save  himself ;  for  it 's  his  day  I  'm  sinning 
against  like  this, —  forgive  us  all !  " 

On  the  whole,  Sister  Isidore's  account  satisfied  Zan- 
drie  almost  as  well  as  her  own,  and,  after  praying 
to  that  new  but  delightfully  approachable  deity,  Holy 
Virgin,  she  fell  asleep  on  the  resolve  to  live  long 
enough  at  least  to  nurse  her  fallen  Knight  back  to 
life. 


CHAPTER  III 

ZANDRIE   LEARNS    HER   PATER    NOSTER 

But  he  was  out  of  his  head  and  would  frighten  her, 
said  the  silly  nuns,  and  no  other  reason  would  they 
give  for  forbidding  her  even  to  look  on  him.  Her 
announcement  that  she  would  take  full  charge,  was 
met  with  laughter.  She  was  forbidden  to  go  into  the 
retreat-house.  Yet  she  had  nothing  to  do,  and  Sister 
Loyola,  too  much.  But  of  such  is  the  mad  world  of 
grown-ups.  So  it  was  not  until  the  third  day  from 
his  coming  that  Sister  Angela  yielded  even  so  far  as  to 
allow  one  personally  conducted  peep. 

At  sight  of  him,  the  little  girl  looked  up  into 
her  sister's  face  for  sympathy,  forgetting  that  she 
had  never  yet  found  it  there.  Then  the  face  on  the 
pillow  took  up  her  thought  so  that  she  forgot  again 
and  asked  "  what  color,  sister  dear  supposed,  were  his 
eyes  ?  "  He  had  sped  by  on  his  horse  too  fast  for 
her  to  see;  but  they  must  be  blue.  They  were!  As 
though  in  answer,  they  opened  to  let  her  see,  and  he 
began  to  talk  to  her,  too.  "  Where  's  the  diapason 
gone?"  But  without  waiting  for  answer,  "The  toc- 
cata 's  absurd  without  the  open  diapason  —  of  all 
stops,  confound  it !  But  I  tell  you  it 's  gone.  Keeps 

28 


LEARNS  HER  PATER  NOSTER  29 

doing  that  way  lately,  and  no  telling  when  it  will  come 
back  either."  The  bright,  uncanny  eyes  were  look- 
ing at  some  one  behind  her  now,  so  that  she  turned, 
and,  seeing  no  one,  gripped  her  sister's  sleeve.  Mean- 
while he  had  begun  to  speak  his  mind  to  the  invisi- 
ble presence  in  French  so  fluent  yet  odd,  that  Zandrie, 
though  she  had  had  French  governesses  since  she  could 
talk,  found  it  hard  to  understand.  The  nun  started 
to  pull  her  toward  the  door.  "  Stop ! "  he  com- 
manded, holding  out  his  hand  so  peremptorily  that 
Sister  Angela  hesitated  —  and  was  lost.  For  he 
caught  her  veil  in  an  excellent  grip,  and  then  —  oh, 
then  the  intentness  with  which  he  was  searching  her 
face  melted  into  a  heart-winning  smile,  and  "  You 
bewitching  little  piece !  "  he  whispered,  "  kiss  me  and 
I  '11  tell  you  something!  "  But  before  the  Sub-Prior- 
ess of  St.  Scholastica's  could  rally,  "  O  hell ! "  he 
burst  out,  "  is  there  no  one  to  help  but  a  pack  of 
women  with  cuffs  across  their  foreheads?  .  .  . 
The  Ladies's  Aid !  Ha  ha !  "  The  wild  laugh  barely 
reached  Zandrie's  ears  as  the  fleeing  nun  dragged  her 
down  the  hall. 

But,  two  days  later,  he  had  come  back  from  the 
land  of  dreams,  to  stay  and  to  ask  questions;  and  it 
was  a  proud  day  for  Zandrie,  because  at  Vesper  time 
she  was  allowed  to  watch  at  his  side.  If  he  needed 
attention,  she  was  to  run  to  the  chapel  and  very 
quietly  beckon  Sister  Loyola  from  choir.  For  as  it 
happened,  every  hospital  nurse  of  the  town  was  in 


30  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


demand,  and  till  one  could  be  gotten,  Sister  Loyola, 
with  old  Sister  Dositheus  for  companion,  had  been 
appointed  by  Reverend  Mother  to  care  for  the  guest. 

Daylight  was  melting  into  the  glow  of  sunset,  and 
the  bell  was  tolling,  when  Zandrie  stole  to  her  post. 
Her  charge  lay  asleep,  his  left  arm  bandaged  from 
elbow  to  wrist,  straight  at  his  side ;  the  other,  stretched 
towards  her  so  that  the  hand  hung  over  the  bed-side. 
It  was  a  hand  that  looked  as  though  it  could  do  very 
deftly  its  owner's  will,  yet  as  though  it  could  grip 
hard  too.  As  for  the  face,  the  longer  she  studied  it, 
the  more  disquieting  grew  a  doubt  whether  it  did 
really  fulfill  her  ideal.  For  the  eyebrows,  darker 
than  his  hair  and  drawn  down  towards  the  bridge  of 
his  nose  as  though  frowning  a  little,  by  no  means 
pleased  her.  She  would  have  had  them  nicely  arched. 
And  then,  his  mouth  —  oh,  it  would  be  sure  to  give 
orders,  and  the  chin  would  see  to  it  that  they  were 
carried  out!  Even  his  hair  was  not  quite  what  it 
might  be;  it  hardly  curled  at  all, —  and  yet  the  color 
.  .  .  In  the  fulness  of  her  satisfaction  with  that, 
she  hove  a  sigh  that  woke  him  up. 

At  first  his  eyes  seemed  to  question  the  bars  of  deep 
red-gold  drawn  by  the  sun  across  the  wall,  but  soon 
they  traveled  around  to  Zandrie's  face,  and  the  frown 
of  bewilderment  relaxed.  "  I  thought  — "  he  began, 
but  his  voice  dropped  as  though  very  tired.  Then, 
"  I  took  you  —  for  a  portrait  —  of  a  bobolink.  All 
black  —  and  white." 


LEARNS  HER  PATER  NOSTER  31 

"  They  said  I  must  n't  talk,"  the  little  girl  said 
shyly,  for,  for  some  reason  he  was  one  of  the  few 
people  of  whom  she  felt  in  awe. 

"  But  you  must,"  he  answered  with  such  authority 
that  "  I  told  you  so !  "  she  thought.  "  What 's  your 
name  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"It's  very  queer,  I'm  afraid.  It's  —  Alexandra 
Owen  Donation  —  after  my  father  Alexander." 

But  he  did  not,  like  some  obnoxious  persons,  ask  if 
she  bought  it  by  the  yard,  nor  tell  her  that  she 
might  grow  up  to  it.  He  was  perfectly  decorous. 
"Mine's  Julian  —  after  my  grandfather,"  he  said. 
"  I  Ve  forgotten  the  rest."  And  then  in  spite  of  her  he 
asked  three  questions  in  a  row,  and  when  she  threat- 
ened to  go  for  Sister  Loyola,  he  tried  to  reach  out  for 
her  skirt ;  but  the  movement  of  his  arm,  though  slight, 
made  him  catch  his  breath. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  she  whispered,  leaning  towards  him. 

"  Thanks.  I'm  mad!"  And  he  shut  his  eyes  and 
asked  no  more  questions. 

In  fact,  as  she  sat  firmly  resisting  the  temptation  to 
swing  her  feet;  while  the  nuns  sang  in  the  chapel 
and  the  bars  of  gold  on  the  wall  turned  gray,  he  lay 
so  still  that  she  thought  he  slept.  And  then  the  dusk 
deepened  so  that  she  could  hardly  see  him,  and  the 
room  got  so  dreadfully  still  that  she  began  to  wrig- 
gle. 

"  Alexandra  —  Owen  —  Donallon  — "  It  was  the 
voice  of  her  charge,  and  profoundly  meditative ;  "  Just 


32  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


let  me  get  hold  of  you  —  just  to  make  sure  you  're 
not  one  of  the  dreams." 

She  took  his  hand.  It  felt  rather  limp.  A  pic- 
ture of  the  Knight  on  horseback  flashed  into  her 
memory  —  a  dazzling  picture  so  that  something 
seemed  to  catch  her  by  the  throat.  Suddenly  but  very 
gently  she  laid  her  cheek  against  his  forehead. 

It  was  not  till  after  a  discussion  between  Sister 
Angela,  Sister  Loyola,  and  the  Prioress,  that  she  was 
allowed  to  go  back  to  him  next  afternoon  —  after  Sis- 
ter Loyola  had  plead  in  his  behalf  and  prevailed.  The 
part  of  the  talk  that  Zandrie  heard  amused  her  so 
that  she  told  Julian.  "  What  do  you  s'pose ! "  she 
giggled,  "  They  said  they  didn  't  know  you !  " 

"  They  're  uncommonly  right." 

"  Well,  I  told  them  I  did,  and  Sister  Isidore  inter- 
rupted Reverend  Mother  and  said  you  looked  like  a 
blessed  angel,  so  she  's  doing  penance  now.  But  you 
see,"  she  added,  "  I  'd  seen  you  before  —  on  the  wall. 
And  —  and  you  were  coming  back  for  me,  were  n't 
you?" 

"Back  for  you?" 

She  caught  a  little  sigh,  for  his  expression  was  not 
even  intelligent.  But  already  that  arch-destroyer  of 
fun,  common  sense,  had  begun  to  build  a  wall  be- 
tween the  World  of  Things  Only  Oneself  Sees,  and 
the  World  of  Everybody  Else,  so  that  she  was  com- 
ing to  know  them  for  two  worlds;  and  in  her  heart 
of  hearts  she  feared  that  Julian  had  never  heard  of 


LEARNS  HER  PATER  NOSTER  33 

her  Knight  or  herself.  Yet  before  abandoning  hope, 
"  Perhaps  you  've  forgotten,"  she  suggested. 

"  I  reckon  I  have." 

"  Zandrie  of  the  Convent?  "  she  hinted,  desperately. 

"  Don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about,"  he  said 
rather  testily. 

Well,  it  was  the  sort  of  thing  one  could  not  ex- 
plain. Perhaps  it  was  more  than  the  World  of  Every- 
body Else  often  granted,  that  a  being  so  like  one's 
Knight  in  color  and  shape  should  be  there  before  one's 
eyes. 

"  You  're  not  on  the  road  to  being  a  nun,  are  you?  " 
he  asked  later. 

"Never!"  she  answered  with  sudden  ferocity. 
"  And  listen !  "  she  whispered,  "  I  hate  it  here !  O, 
I  hate  it !  I  hate  them  all,  all!  —  but  Sister  Isidore  — 
well,  and  Sister  Loyola.  Sister  Angela  says  I  '11  want 
to  be  a  nun  some  day, —  but  I  shan't  ever!  Imagine 
me  saying  my  prayers  all  day  and  sewing  the  rest  of  it ! 
And  besides,  I  most  solemnly  promised  my  father. 
That  night  he  was  so  sick  and  died  next  day,  he  talked 
about  nuns  a  good  deal  and  made  me  promise  not  to 
be  one.  He  always  used  to  make  me  promise  never 
to  be  Catholic  either.  He  and  Mamma  were  always 
talking  about  Catholics;  they  must  all  be  pretty  bad, 
I  reckon,  though  Sister  Isidore  's  very  Catholic,  she 
says.  But  after  Papa  died,  Uncle  Jason  came  and 
got  me  and  brought  me  straight  here,  though  Mam'- 
selle  and  I  made  an  awful  scene."  She  sighed  with 


34  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

pleasure,  but  added  ruefully,  "  People's  whole  sisters 
are  usually  little  girls  like  themselves,  are  n't  they  ?  " 

Julian  being  unable  to  answer  this  question,  she  ex- 
plained that  Sister  Angela  was  "only  half,  and  hor- 
ribly old." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?  "  he  asked  gravely. 

"  Oh,  ages  and  ages.     Months,  I  guess." 

"What  do  you  do?" 

This  sympathetic  interest  was  delightful !  "  Noth- 
ing," she  said.  "  Nothing  but  learn  arithmetic  and 
things  with  Sister  Angela  and  Sister  Petronilla  — 
worse  'n  my  name,  is  n't  that  ?  —  and  go  to  Mass  and 
Holy  Office  —  that 's  church,  you  know  —  because 
I  'm  made  to ;  and  I  have  to  learn  religious  things  in 
Latin,  and  sew.  There  's  no  one  to  play  with  any- 
way, you  see,  but  of  course  I  can  pretend  by  myself. 
And  there  's  Sister  Isidore  —  she  is  n't  as  old  as  the 
rest,  but  O  dear!  she  isn't  as  young  as  me."  She 
hesitated,  and  then,  "  I  may  as  well  tell  you  every 
bit.  The  rest  of  the  time  I  'm  —  wicked.  And  the 
more  they  punish  me,  the  wickeder  I  am  —  on  purpose. 
There!" 

But  he  smiled,  and  not  as  the  superintendent  of  a 
Sunday  school  to  which  she  went  just  one  Sunday, 
had  smiled.  "  I  reckon,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  've  met 
my  match."  And  then  she  laughed  herself,  in  delight 
at  the  discovery  that  reality  can  be  better  than  dreams. 

"  Are  your  father  and  mother  both  dead  too?  "  she 
asked,  and  then  caught  her  breath  at  sight  of  some 


LEARNS  HER  PATER  NOSTER  35 

lines  that  a  twinge  as  of  bodily  pain  cut  in  his  fore- 
head. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  almost  sullenly.     "  Both." 

"  And  —  and  no  brothers  or  sisters  ?  " 

"  None  that  I  know  of.  So  we  must  be  good 
friends,"  he  added,  opening  his  hand;  and  she  laid 
hers  in  it  and  raised  it  to  her  lips.  She  loved  him 
already,  she  frankly  owned,  even  better  than  Sister 
Isidore. 

"  O  goody !  "  she  exclaimed  a  moment  later,  "  I  Ve 
the  splendidest  idea !  Do  you  s'pose  they  'd  let  me 
come  oftener  if  I  were  good?" 

"  If  /  were,  you  mean?  " 

"Don't  tease!  I'm  dreadfully  in  earnest.  I  be- 
lieve I  won't  ever  cross  myself  wrong  again,  or  say 
'  eeny  meeny  miny  mo '  for  *  Pater  noster.'  Do  you 
s'pose  if  I  learned  it  right  —  I  can  any  minute,  you 
know;  I  really  know  it  already  and  my  Invocation 
too!  —  they'd  let  me  come  as  often  as  I  like?" 

"  You  might  risk  it." 

"  O  me !  O  my !  "  she  chuckled. 

And  whether  as  a  result  of  her  reform  or  not,  she 
was  hereafter  allowed  to  see  him  whenever  he  asked 
for  her.  "  It 's  hard  being  good,  though,"  she  said, 
"  I  'd  gotten  so  into  the  habit  of  being  bad !  " 

"  He  has  a  strange  influence  over  the  child,"  said 
Sister  Angela. 

"  The  power  to  cast  out  divils,"  Sister  Isidore  sug- 
gested,—  and  did  penance  later. 


36  ZANDRIE 


"  There 's  a  certain  spirit  of  grace  within  him," 
said  the  grave  Sister  Loyola,  "  but  it 's  not  all  vic- 
torious yet;  he  will  suffer  much  in  soul  as  well  as 
body."  ' 

For  many  a  day  the  spirit  of  grace  was  all  that 
Zandrie  saw,  even  when  he  lay  glaring  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed  as  though  he  would  like  to  chop  it  into  bits, 
and  shut  his  mouth  tight  instead  of  answering  a  ques- 
tion. Even  at  the  moments  when  his  forehead  grew 
moist  and  his  eyes  closed  as  though  afraid  of  the  tale 
of  pain  they  might  tell,  she  heard  no  evil  word  es- 
cape him.  For  some  reason  he  seemed  ashamed  of 
pain,  so  that,  sitting  on  her  hands  to  hold  them  from 
caresses,  she  gallantly  pretended  not  to  notice. 

The  first  lapse  from  grace  that  she  really  had  to 
acknowledge,  came  when  she  forgot  and  plumped  down 
beside  him  on  the  bed.  He  had  been  flat  on  his 
back  for  so  long  now  that  no  wonder  she  sometimes 
forgot  why!  But  she  had  cause  to  remember  in 
future,  for  he  rapped  out  "Be  careful!"  so  fiercely 
that  she  could  scarcely  believe  her  ears.  Of  course 
she  flung  herself  on  the  floor  and  howled  in  remorse. 
"  Oh !  I  could  die  of  sorriness !  Your  pr-precious 
back !  "  Had  it  been  within  reach,  she  would  have 
done  what  she  might  to  mend  it  with  kisses,  so  she 
kissed  his  hand  instead.  But  it  gripped  her  shoul- 
der savagely,  and  "  Get  out  of  the  room  if  you  're 
going  to  cr^,"  he  commanded,  so  that  she  stopped  in 
sheer  amazement.  He  apologized,  and  admitted  that 


LEARNS  HER  PATER  NOSTER  37 

he  had  a  "  beastly  temper  " —  an  admission  which,  as 
it  was  evidently  true,  seemed  a  handsome  apology  in 
itself.  The  second  lapse  from  grace  came  two  days 
later,  but  it  required  no  apology. 

Early  in  their  friendship  she  began  to  tutor  him 
in  the  great  art  of  pretending.  The  first  lesson  came 
on  the  day  after  Dr.  Summers  and  a  surgeon  from 
Washington  had  put  him  into  a  plaster  jacket,  and  a 
hospital  nurse  had  taken  Sister  Loyola's  place.  "  As 
soon  as  you  know  how  to  pretend,"  said  Zandrie. 
"  you  won't  mind  being  alone  so  very  much ;  perhaps 
you  won't  even  mind  your  new  turtle-shell.  Why 
Julian  dearie,  sometimes  when  I  'm  pretending,  I  'd 
almost  rather  nobody  'd  speak  to  me,  I  'm  having  so 
much  better  time  where  I  am.  Want  to  come  too? 
Then  listen ! "  She  lowered  her  voice.  "  I  have 
three  black  beans." 

"Where?" 

"  O  but  you  must  'nt  ask  such  things !  I  keep  them 
in  a  little  box  of  ebony  and  mother-of-pearl,  and  it 
opens  queerly,  up-side-down.  It  came  from  Popocat- 
apetl.  Well,  I  carry  it  in  my  petticoat  pocket  —  a 
pocket  nobody  knows  of.  Interested?  My,  how  I 
love  you !  They  '11  do  anything  for  you  —  my  beans, 
I  mean  —  that  they  do  for  me.  There  's  the  biggest 
—  you  could  n't  guess  what  that  does  when  I  squeeze 
it."  She  beamed  at  him,  her  hands  clasped.  "  It 
makes  me  fly !  Think  of  it !  You  've  dreamed  it,  you 
know.  I  never  go  up  very  high  —  sometimes  only 


38  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

just  out  of  Sister  Angela's  reach,  poor  soul.  Some- 
times when  I  'm  running  like  lightning  and  people  after 
me  —  just  as  they  Ve  almost  caught  up,  I  squeeze  my 
bean,  and  then  —  think  what  fun!  And  sometimes 
'stead  of  walking  up-stairs,  I  go  by  the  sunbeam  that 
leads  to  the  first  landing ;  only  the  funny  thing  is  that 
generally  when  I  go  up  that  way,  I  send  my  real  self 
up  by  the  stairs,  and  the  two  of  us  meet  at  the  top." 

"  That 's  curious." 

"  Is  n't  it !  But  the  second  bean  —  just  let  me  tell 
about  that.  It 's  smaller,  and  it  —  O  guess !  It 
makes  me  invisible !  I  use  it  especially  at  Mass,  when 
I  'm  kneeling  by  Mother  McClung.  She  's  deaf  and 
dumb,  you  know,  and  cooks  your  dinner.  Well,  and 
suddenly  she  does  n't  see  me.  Nobody  does.  And  I 
stalk  up  and  down  the  aisle  in  my  squeaky  shoes,  and 
all  around  the  choir  till  the  Sisters  get  perfectly  wild. 
Sometimes  I  twitch  their  veils  or  whisper  awful  things 
in  their  ears.  Once  I  whispered  '  ten  devils ! '  O  my 
goodness !  And  I  scuff  behind  people  on  the  street  — 
used  to,  I  mean  —  and  they  think  it 's  a  ghost.  Oh, 
what  don't  I  do! "  and  she  hugged  herself  in  ecstasy. 
After  a  few  seconds,  however,  she  left  off  laughing 
and  leaned  forward.  "  I  '11  tell  you  about  my  third 
bean,  too.  You  could  n't  laugh  ?  O  no !  for  you  're 
Julian  and  you  '11  come  with  me."  She  looked  out 
of  the  window  across  the  room.  "  When  I  'm  so  un- 
happy I  want  to  cry  myself  to  pieces,  then  —  then  I 


LEARNS  HER  PATER  NOSTER  39 

stand  at  the  window  and  squeeze  my  littlest  bean.  I 
like  to  watch  it  come  —  my  cloud  chariot,  you  know. 
First  it 's  way  up,  only  a  speck  of  cloud.  But  it 
comes  fast,  bigger  and  bigger.  And  I  get  into  it. 
And  then  —  O  Julian!"  and  she  seized  his  hand, 
"  would  n't  you  like  to  come  too  ?  There  's  room. 
And  we  '11  go  straight  up  into  the  blue,  till  it 's  all  we 
see.  But  pretty  soon  you  see  something  bright.  It 's 
my  cloud  palace  —  built  of  sunsets,  and  the  floors  are 
white  and  gray ;  but  the  pillars  and  walls  —  Oh !  And 
the  doors  are  rainbows.  You  can  go  under  them, 
through  hall  after  hall;  you  hardly  ever  get  to  the  end. 
And  it 's  all  light  —  all  but  the  night  corner.  Listen ! 
It 's  made  of  the  blackest  clouds  you  ever  saw.  It 
scares  you,  sometimes !  And  at  one  end  there 's  a 
tower,  and  you  look  up  into  it,  up  and  up,  for  it's 
higher  than  you  can  imagine,  and  at  the  top  is  a  little 
moon  rainbow  with  the  moon  in  the  middle.  Julian! 
I  think  the  chariot 's  on  its  way !  "  She  sprang  up ; 
but  the  afternoon  sun  shone  into  her  eyes,  blinding,  so 
that  she  groped  for  his  hand.  "  Come !  " 

"  Some  other  day,"  he  said. 

"Why?     Why?" 

"  Another  day  —  when  I  'm  out  of  my  shell." 

She  looked  at  him,  confused  by  this  recall  to  the 
World  of  Everybody  Else,  to  which,  after  all,  Julian 
belonged,  poor  dear.  But  perhaps  she  could  yet  show 
him  the  way  out.  She  forgot  to  try  to  any  more  that 


40  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


afternoon,  however,  for  the  simple  reason  that  the  bar 
of  sunlight  had  reached  his  hair.  "  Oh !  Oh !  "  she 
whispered. 

Half  an  hour  later,  in  the  midst  of  the  veracious 
history  of  Launcelot  her  cat,  Sister  Angela  summoned 
her  to  Vespers. 

"  I  won't  go !  "  she  said  under  her  breath,  to  Julian. 

"  Yes,  you  will,"  he  answered. 

She  looked  into  his  eyes ;  then  rose  and  walked  slow- 
ly to  the  door.  But  when  Sister  Angela  held  out  her 
hand,  "  I  go,"  she  announced,  "  because  he  tells  me 
to." 

No  wonder  that  the  nuns  shook  their  heads  in  be- 
wilderment, or  that  Sister  Isidore  did  penance  for 
further  remarks  on  Julian's  ability  to  rouse  as  well  as 
to  cast  out  devils. 


CHAPTER  IV 

JULIAN    LEARNS   SOMETHING  TOO 

These  were  good  days  for  Zandrie ;  in  spite  of  sor- 
row for  her  comrade's  pain,  they  were  the  best  since 
her  coming  to  the  convent ;  and  the  idea  that  they  must 
end,  never  dawned  till  a  morning  three  weeks  from 
their  beginning.  Sister  Petronilla,  having  little  to  do 
as  guest-mistress  just  now,  was  helping  her  cope  with 
fractions  in  a  corner  of  the  work-room,  where  Rever- 
end Mother  herself  came  to  whisper  that  two  ladies 
who  wanted  to  make  their  retreat,  might  be  notified 
that  they  could  come  any  time  after  to-morrow.  Dr. 
Summers  had  consented  to  his  patient's  being  moved 
— "  as  well  now  as  later  "  she  added  with  a  shake  of 
the  head. 

Fractions  fared  ill  after  this. 

When  she  could  slip  away  to  Julian,  "  What 's  up, 
Sister  Bobolink?  "  he  asked.  "  More  trouble  with  the 
crows  ?  " —  so  he  indecorously  indicated  the  nuns. 

But  the  title  of  "  Sister,"  which  usually  set  her 
dancing  with  rage,  passed  unchallenged.  Clasping  her 
hands  under  her  chin  to  hold  back  the  sobs,  she  said 
"  They  're  going  to  send  you  away." 


42  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


"  That  all !  I  thought  your  chariot  must  have 
punctured  a  tire  on  the  tip  of  a  steeple." 

But  Sister  Bobolink's  tears  spilled  over. 

"  Stop  that !  "  he  commanded.  "  Come  talk  it  over. 
Are  they  going  to  cart  me  away  in  the  gray  of  the 
dawn,  as  they  did  Toper  ?  " 

"  It 's  no  1 — laughing  matter,"  and  she  screwed  the 
tears  back  with  her  fists. 

"  About  Toper, —  no."  He  took  one  of  the  forti- 
fying fists.  "  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  —  a  big  thing 
ten  years  old!  If  I  hadn't  forgotten  how,  I'd  cry 
too,  just  to  show  how  silly —  There,  little  sister  — 
look !  you  can  get  up  on  the  bed  here.  You  're  right 
narrow !  " —  he  pronounced  it  "  narrer  " — "  Only 
don't  make  an  earthquake  of  it,  sobbing." 

Having  never  been  invited  to  this  honorable  post 
before,  she  forgot  her  woe  in  its  novelty.  He  was 
actually  letting  her  curl  up  beside  him,  her  cheek 
against  his  neck  and  right  ear,  while  with  the  hand  of 
the  arm  she  was  lying  on,  he  stroked  back  her  hair. 
But  the  tears  soon  came  again  so  that  she  had  to 
clench  her  teeth  for  fear  of  the  earthquake. 

"  There  are  some  people  the  other  side  of  the  wa- 
ter," he  said  irrelevently,  "  who  'd  laugh  if  they  saw 
—  this." 

"Wh— why?" 

"  O  well,  maybe  because  they  are  n't  little  girls  — 
real  little  girls  —  themselves.  I  never  had  much  to  do 


JULIAN    LEARNS    SOMETHING    43 

with  one  before.  Would  n't  have  thought  I  'd  enjoy 
it." 

"  Oh !  "  Zandrie  wailed,  "  I  've  got  to  get  off  the 
bed!" 

But  he  held  her  fast.  He  was  all  boxed  up  so  a  lit- 
tle earthquake  could  n't  hurt.  "  Now  let 's  be  reason- 
able. I  'm  only  going  to  the  hospital." 

"  Mi-i-iles  away !  " 

"  Three,"  he  corrected,  "  and  you  can  come  to  see 
me,  and  run  away  to  do  it,  which  '11  suit  you  to  a  T. 
And  presently  when  my  legs  do  what  I  tell  'em — • 
queer  they  're  so  weak  still !  —  then  I  '11  get  a  new 
horse  and  put  you  on  in  front,  and  off  we  '11  gallop,  no 
matter  what  the  crows  say.  And  when  I  get  back  to 
Paris,  I  '11  —  oh,  I  reckon  I  '11  write  to  you,  which  is  a 
sight  more  than  I  'd  do  for  any  one  else." 

But  she  was  not  to  be  cajoled  so,  nor  even  by  the 
caressing  hand  against  her  cheek,  whose  touch  perhaps 
made  the  coming  loss  look  the  more  terrific.  "  Oh !  " 
she  sobbed,  "  I  can't  be  a  nun  here  without  you !  I 
can  see  it  here  without  you !  " 

Yes,  and  the  vision  filled  her  with  a  terror  of  the 
loneliness  that  she  had  already  come  to  know ;  so  that 
the  power  of  seeing,  so  often  her  best  friend,  proved 
traitor  now,  turning  the  wine  of  Julian's  cheer  to 
water.  She  managed  to  hear  him  through  in  silence 
while  he  explained  the  certainty  of  her  coming  often 
to  the  hospital ;  but  then  she  drew  closer  and  clung  to 


44  ZANDRIE 


him  in  a  passion  of  entreaty.  "  Take  me  with  you ! 
Julian  dearie!  —  take  me  with  you  to  Paris!" 

"Mon  Dieu!" 

"  You  could  if  you  wanted.  You  can  do  anything 
you  try.  You  can  make  me  good !  —  the  nuns  say  so. 
O  take  me  and  see!  I  was  wicked  before  you  came 
and  I  '11  be  wicked  when  you  're  gone.  I  '11  grow  up 
wicked.  They  '11  try  to  make  me  Catholic  and  break 
my  promise.  But  with  you  I  '11  be  good  forever.  I  '11 
mind  you  better  than  Sister  Isidore,  even !  I  '11  be 
your  real,  true  sister  and  take  care  of  you  when  you  're 
hurt,  and  we  '11  pretend  together.  I  '11  make  new 
things  for  us  to  pretend.  O  think !  " 

He  seemed  to  be  thinking  hard,  for  he  lay  still,  his 
hand  forgetting  to  stroke  her  hair. 

"  Remember,"  she  whispered,  "  I  '11  be  good  for- 
ever." 

"  By  heaven ! "  he  said  at  last,  "  I  don't  see  why 
not." 

"You  mean  you'll—" 

"  I  've  got  an  idea." 

"You'll  take  me  with  you?  Julian!"  She 
bounded  off  the  bed  to  give  play  to  the  joy  that  threat- 
ened to  throttle  her. 

"  I  '11  do  my  best." 

"Your  best!  Oh,  then  —  why,  then—"  Where 
she  gave  her  confidence,  she  gave  it  entire ;  and  at  first 
sight  of  her  Knight's  hair,  she  had  dumped  the  whole 
of  her  trust  at  his  feet.  And  so,  though  he  told  her 


JULIAN    LEARNS    SOMETHING    45 

nothing  of  his  idea  —  only  that  he  must  have  time  to 
plan  a  campaign  against  Sister  Angela  —  she  needed 
no  more  assurance.  He  said  he  would  do  his  best ;  and 
where  others'  best  left  off,  his  began;  so  her  freedom 
was  as  good  as  won  already  —  freedom  plus  Julian ! 
And  her  life  was  going  to  be  happy  after  all! 

It  was  snowing  splendidly  fast,  as  though  to  help 
hurry  the  minutes  till  he  should  summon  her,  which  he 
might  do,  she  thought,  very  soon  now.  The  noon 
office  had  been  sung  and  the  midday  siesta  was  over, 
and  Sister  Angela  had  actually  gone  into  the  retreat- 
house.  So  Zandrie  pranced  and  tumbled  in  the  drifts, 
and  when  she  found  poor,  deaf  McClung  shoveling  a 
path,  she  snatched  the  spade  and  worked  gallantly  for 
full  three  minutes,  while  he  grinned,  stamped,  and 
beat  his  hands.  Then  Sister  Petronilla  came  through 
the  path  and  Zandrie  threw  snow  over  her  veil. 
"  You  're  a  novice  again !  "  she  shouted. 

Ten  minutes  later,  impatient  of  waiting,  she  ran 
into  the  retreat-house,  and  was  about  to  demand  admit- 
tance to  Julian's  room,  when  the  sound  of  Sister  An- 
gela's voice  arrested  her.  The  door  stood  ajar. 
Eavesdropping  was  an  evil  practice  of  course,  but  Jul- 
ian was  now  answering  the  nun,  and  the  words  and 
tone  snared  her  into  temptation.  "  You  mean,"  he 
was  saying,  "  you  think  any  soul  can  be  fitted  to  a 
convent  life?  " 

"  I  believe,"  the  Sub-Prioress  said  —  and  her  voice 
was  not  warming  to  hear  — "  that  my  sister's  will 


46  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

find  its  true  home  here,  in  time.  What  I  believe  is 
usually  well  founded." 

"  Good  God !  Zandrie  a  nun !  I  beg  your  pardon. 
But  —  why,  she  'd  wear  herself  out  just  struggling. 
Besides,  she  was  cut  out  for  a  right  big  work  in  the 
world.  She  ought  to  be  let  loose  to  do  it.  I  've  seen 
a  deal  of  men  and  women,  and  I  tell  you  she  's  un- 
usual. There  's  something  in  her  that  was  n't  made 
to  be  wasted,  I  '11  wager.  For  Heaven's  sake,  my 
dear  lady,  don't  imprison  her  here !  It  '11  be  a  crime 
against  her  and  her  Maker.  Give  her  to  me,  and  as 
I  said,  I  '11  make  it  my  first  duty  to  bring  her  up  well 
to  do  the  work  in  the  world  that  she  was  meant  for. 
Give  her  to  me !  " 

When  the  nun's  voice  broke  the  long  pause,  it  was 
low  and  vibrant  and  slightly  hoarse.  "  You  asking 
for  charge  of  a  young  soul!  You  daring  to  judge 
between  its  Maker  and  me !  You !  —  Oh,  we  re- 
ceived you  —  kept  you,  at  least,  in  mercy,  knowing 
about  your  life, —  trusting  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  and 
your  own  honor,  to  work  no  harm.  You!  who  do  not 
even  profess  the  faith!"  The  tense,  accusing  voice 
kept  on,  but  the  listener  heard  no  more  because  of  a 
step  on  the  stairs. 

It  was  Dr.  Summers,  at  sight  of  whom  Zandrie 
was  more  dismayed  than  by  Sister  Angela's  unjust 
denunciation ;  for  where  he  entered,  his  sway  was  abso- 
lute. Twice  he  had  dismissed  her  by  a  mere  jerk  of 
the  thumb.  And  now  she  knew  that  she  might  not 


JULIAN    LEARNS    SOMETHING    47 

see  Julian  for  a  whole  half-hour.  But  after  stepping 
into  a  vacant  guest-room  to  let  her  sister  pass  without 
seeing  her  —  for  the  Sub-Prioress  too  was  dismissed, 
by  a  jerk  of  the  thumb?  —  after  that  the  time  passed 
quickly.  For  in  spite  of  Sister  Angela's  resistance, 
Julian  would  have  his  way ;  his  "  best "  meant  certain 
success.  Imagination  wrought  busily,  while  she 
floated  on  unsounded  depths  of  trust. 

So  soon!  The  doctor  was  striding  down  the  hall, 
furiously  —  at  a  tempo  in  fact  suggesting  flight.  And 
then  —  well,  then  came  Julian's  second  breach  of 
courtesy,  through  which  she  caught  a  glimpse,  more 
startling  than  the  first,  of  a  certain  untamed  creature 
shaking  its  chains  behind  the  bars  of  his  gentler  self; 
yet  a  breach  through  which  her  heart  tried  to  reach 
in  a  very  agony  of  unasked  forgiveness. 

It  began  with  his  command  to  call  back  Dr.  Sum- 
mers; and  she  raced  at  his  bidding.  The  nurse  had 
gone  down  stairs  for  something.  It  required  three 
breathless  appeals  flung  over  the  bannisters,  to  arrest 
the  doctor,  who  faced  about  with  the  growl  of  a  cap- 
tured bear. 

"  Come  here  to  the  right,"  Julian  said  harshly, 
grappling  his  captive  to  the  bedside  by  one  of  the  doc- 
tor's buttons.  "  Now  tell  me  what  that  meant  — 
those  last  words  —  exactly." 

Though  the  Doctor's  eyebrows  were  almost  eclips- 
ing his  eyes,  he  shifted  his  feet  as  one  discomfited, 
crushing  his  felt  hat  under  one  arm  and  his  surgeon's 


48  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

case  under  the  other,  and  staring  down  at  the  muscu- 
lar hand  on  his  coat  as  though  quite  unable  to  re- 
lease himself.  Then  he  turned  and  glowered  at  Zan- 
drie.  "  What  words  ?  "  he  rumbled,  eyeing  her  still. 

Julian's  voice  was  low  but  very  clear.  "  That  it 
depended  on  —  what?  I  want  the  answer  without 
any  nonsense." 

Would  the  stupid  man  never  give  it?  Zandrie 
could  have  told  him  that  when  his  patient  asked  a 
question  in  those  level  tones,  one  had  better  answer 
at  once  and  to  the  point.  This  was  evidently  a  person 
who  did  not  observe;  and  as  he  seemed  to  be  looking 
to  her  for  advice,  she  gave  it :  "  Go  on." 

And  at  last  he  did  go  on,  pulling  his  voice  up  as 
through  a  hole  in  his  throat,  by  jerks;  "  Yes  —  I  sup- 
pose you  may  as  well  know  it  now  as  later.  You  're 
probably  as  well  fitted  —  as  able  to  bear  it  now  —  as 
you  '11  ever  be.  That  is  —  of  course  the  minor  in- 
juries—  the  fracture  of  the  wrist —  It's  a  compli- 
cated fracture,  as  they  say —  You  managed  to  do 
it  quite  thoroughly  —  but  you  '11  have  the  use  of  your 
arm  again,  of  course.  But  the  spine  —  In  a  case 
of  injury  to  vertebrae  and  cord,  producing  paralysis 
like  yours —  Improvement  possible,  but  no  case  of 
perfect  recovery  on  record."  A  tremendous  tug  had 
succeeded  in  pulling  this  last  up  through  the  hole  in 
a  mass,  so  that  the  words  came  too  fast  to  be  under- 
stood at  once. 

Julian's  eyes,  staring  up  at  the  doctor's  flushed  face, 


JULIAN    LEARNS    SOMETHING    49 

showed  him  groping  wildly  at  first;  then  in  growing 
comprehension  of  some  atrocity  the  sight  of  which 
shakes  a  man  with  indignation,  loathing,  defiance,  rage. 
"Like  this  for  life?  For  life?  A  damned  cripple 
—  for  life?"  Suddenly  anger  snatched  the  blood 
from  his  lips  to  kindle  a  flame  in  his  eyes.  His  hand 
let  go  the  doctor's  coat,  to  clutch  a  watch  that  lay 
on  a  chair  at  his  side. 

The  Doctor  meanwhile  was  moving  slowly,  clumsily, 
fumbling  for  his  hat;  yet  he  told  his  wife  later  that 
he  had  no  recollection  of  what  Julian  was  saying. 
Zandrie  heard,  however,  and  the  fierce  words  rang  in 
her  ears  for  hours  after.  "  It 's  absurd !  It 's  a  lie ! 
I  've  ridden  dozens  of  steeplechases ;  I  'm  the  best 
rider  in  Maryland.  If  I  were  n't  in  the  hell  of  a  cast 
you  put  me  into,  I  'd  make  you  swallow  your  lie. 
You  're  a  damned,  lying  fool,  I  say !  Get  out  of  this 
room !  .  .  .  O  my  God !  " 

The  doctor,  who  was  already  on  the  threshold, 
beckoned  to  Zandrie;  but  frightened  though  she  was, 
she  had  other  ideas  of  friendship  than  to  leave  Julian 
now;  for  his  burst  of  fury  had  whirled  her  into  a 
fragmentary  comprehension  of  tragedy.  However 
dimly  and  inexpressibly,  she  yet  realized  that  his  spirit 
and  one  of  its  crises  were  met  together  for  a  mortal 
joust.  An  earthquake  shock  had  let  loose  that  crea- 
ture shaking  its  chains,  to  fight  for  life  with  all  that 
she  had  hitherto  known  as  Julian,  and  victory  for  that 
Julian  must  take  a  long  draught  of  his  heart's  blood; 


50  ZANDRIE 


and  victory  might  not  choose  his  side  after  all.  But 
either  way,  the  struggle  would  be  bitter,  wearying 
body  and  soul  together. 

For  what  seemed  quite  an  hour,  he  lay  without  sign 
of  struggle  or  grief  except  for  the  arm  crooked  over 
his  eyes,  rigid  as  a  bolt.  It  was  so  tensely  rigid  that 
after  a  while  it  began  to  tremble.  His  hand  still 
clenched  the  watch  that  he  had  caught  up  as  though 
to  hurl  at  the  man  whom  he  charged  with  lying. 
Yet  if  he  really  believed  the  dreadful  words  to  be  lies, 
he  would  surely  have  said  so  with  less  fury.  Ah  no ! 
the  doctor  was  telling  truth. 

She  stole  along  beside  the  bed  till  she  was  within 
reach  of  his  forehead.  What  was  going  on  inside 
there?  Was  he  picturing,  like  her,  a  life  in  which 
one  never  ran  in  the  good  sunshine  or  snow,  but  lay 
quite  still  under  bed-clothes  forever  and  ever?  Such 
a  life  would  be  like  a  dream  that  ends  of  its  own  hor- 
ror; its  reality  could  not  even  be  thought.  Beside 
such  misery,  her  own  vital  grief  of  the  early  morning 
was  a  shrunken  trifle. 

His  left  forearm  lay  across  his  breast.  First,  she 
leaned  over  to  drop  two  kisses  as  soft  as  snowflakes,  on 
the  fingers  where  they  escaped  from  the  bandage ;  then 
she  whispered  at  his  ear  "  Julian  dearie !  Listen !  — 
I  '11  love  you  forever ! "  As  he  seemed  not  to  hear, 
she  tried  gently  to  draw  away  the  arm  that  had  been 
riveted  so  long  across  his  eyes,  as  though  to  hold  down 
tears  struggling  for  air. 


JULIAN    LEARNS    SOMETHING     51 

Well,  after  all  she  would  rather,  even  for  his  sake, 
have  found  tears  there  than  the  hostile  glare  that 
frightened  her  almost  into  forgetting  the  blow  with 
which  he  struck  her  away,  that  set  her  flying  —  poor, 
voiceless  bobolink, —  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the 
bitter  air. 


CHAPTER  V 

DEALING   WITH    TREACHERY 

If  Mrs.  Deming  had  seen  the  final  exit  of  the  Fur- 
ness  Boy  from  his  father's  house,  she  would  doubt- 
less have  drawn  gratifying  assurance  that  in  views 
on  ^chastening,  she  and  Providence  were  at  one. 
Luckily,  the  witnesses  were  few  and  one  at  least  was 
sympathetic  —  a  little  girl  at  an  upper  window,  who 
cried,  not  so  much  because  her  Knight  had  not  let  her 
come  to  him  before  he  went,  as  because  she  knew  the 
reason  why.  He  was  staggering  through  the  first 
steps  of  his  chastening  with  a  most  healthy-minded 
bad  grace,  so  that  even  Reverend  Mother  was  appalled. 
"  Don't  ye  be  grieving,  however,"  Sister  Isidore  com- 
forted, with  an  arm  about  Reverend  Mother's  ample 
waist.  "  Dear  heart !  it 's  just  to  bother  the  likes  of 
yourself  that  the  Divil  will  be  lodging  in  other  folks, 
for  it 's  so  little  ye  're  acquainted  with  his  ways,  he 
knows  ye  're  aisy  teased,  and  loves  the  sport."  But 
Zandrie  knew  that  she  herself  could  have  no  such 
excuse  for  grieving;  the  Devil  and  she  were  too  old 
friends ! 

In  spite  of  Julian's  refusal  to  see  her,  her  faith  in 

52 


DEALING    WITH    TREACHERY       53 

his  intention  to  take  her  away  was  unshaken.  It  was 
possible  and  even  probable  that  Dr.  Summers's  news 
had  stunned  him  into  a  moment's  forgetfulness  of  all 
else;  but,  as  he  had  said  himself,  the  hospital  was  near, 
and  he  would  be  expecting  her  there.  Otherwise  he 
would  doubtless  have  seen  her  this  morning :  in  spite  of 
the  blasphemous,  Heaven-defying  rage  that  had  lasted 
over  night,  to  Reverend  Mother's  so  sore  dismay;  in 
spite  of  the  Devil  in  league  with  pain,  he  would  have 
let  her  come  to  arrange  about  her  flight.  For,  flight 
it  must  probably  be,  since  Sister  Angela  had  said  not 
a  word  about  her  talk  with  him  and  had  doubtless 
refused  to  consider  his  proposition.  So  far  from 
being  dismayed  by  that  fact,  however,  Zandrie  hoped 
that  she  had  refused,  clandestine  departure  being  more 
to  her  taste.  And  once  away,  small  fear  of  recapture, 
for  Julian  wanted  her,  and  where  was  the  nun  who 
could  keep  Julian  from  his  heart's  desire?  Together, 
he  and  she  could  defy  ten  sisterhoods. 

Mail  was  brought  to  the  Priory  twice  a  week  and 
thrust  through  a  slip  into  a  box  fastened  to  the  inside 
of  the  big  gate.  On  the  morning  after  Julian's  going, 
the  Prioress  showed  Zandrie  the  hook  where  the  key 
to  the  box  hung,  in  token  that  she  was  appointed  mail 
carrier  between  the  gate  and  the  convent,  and  the 
honor  thawed  her  for  the  moment  out  of  a  resolution 
to  run  away  that  day.  Over  night,  she  had  decided 
that  her  first  visit  to  Julian  at  the  hospital  should  be, 
not  a  mere  preparation  for  later  flight,  but  her  final 


54  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


good-by  to  St.  Scholastica's.  It  was  certainly  the 
simplest  course.  Touched,  however,  by  Reverend 
Mother's  mark  of  esteem,  she  would  now  stay  perhaps 
three  days  longer,  so  as  to  leave  behind  not  too  evil  a 
fame.  But  a  glance  at  the  contents  of  the  mail  box 
dislodged  even  the  remembrance  of  this  resolve,  for 
there  were  two  envelopes  with  the  same  handwriting 
and  with  the  postmark  of  the  same  town  in  Massa- 
chusetts, and  one  was  addressed  to  the  Mother  Su- 
perior and  the  other  to  Julian. 

That  afternoon  found  her  tramping  along  the  road 
to  town,  Julian's  letter  in  her  pocket,  the  ten  dollar 
gold  piece  in  her  shoe,  where  it  felt  like  a  Midas- 
touched  turnip,  and  under  one  arm  a  bundle  of  care- 
fully chosen  apparel,  including  the  collar  of  Launcelot 
the  deceased.  The  peach  tree  by  the  wall  had  again 
served  for  a  ladder.  At  every  sound  of  wheels,  she 
plunged  recklessly  into  the  snow-laden  bushes,  till, 
coming  upon  a  long  stretch  without  a  single  sheltering 
shrub  or  tree,  whom  must  she  meet  but  Dr.  Summers. 

"  Hello,  young  snowdrift !  "  he  thundered,  reining 
in.  "  Going  to  town  to  see  your  feller  ?  Footing  it 
all  the  way?  Quite  a  bit  yet  to  the  hospital.  Know 
the  road?  Better  hop  in  by  me;  going  that  way  my- 
self presently." 

She  declined  graciously  but  firmly.  Since  his  dis- 
comfiture of  two  days  before,  she  felt  little  awe  of 
him. 

"Know,  the  road?"  he  repeated.     "Why  hello!" 


DEALING    WITH    TREACHERY      55 

and  he  pointed  with  his  whip  at  her  bundle,  "  bless  us 
if  that  isn't  a  shoe  sticking  out  there  —  and  a  little 
pettie !  Looks  mighty  like  a  run-away !  Mum  's  the 
word?" 

Zandrie  agreed  that  mum  was  the  word ;  whereupon 
he  winked  and  drove  on  —  the  faithless  rascal  — 
towards  the  convent. 

She  was  not  Julian's  only  visitor  this  morning.  To 
her  profound  disgust,  there  was  already  by  his  bed- 
side a  prodigiously  stout  lady  in  a  black  satin  waist 
that  creaked  with  her  every  breath.  As  she  complete- 
ly filled  the  only  chair  in  the  little  room,  Zandrie  sat 
down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  very  gently,  yet  "  Care- 
ful! careful!"  the  lady  panted  —  pronouncing  it 
"  caffle." 

Julian  meanwhile  had  given  her  no  word  of  greet- 
ing—  scarcely  even  a  sign  of  recognition  —  staring 
straight  up  at  the  ceiling  in  unmitigated  silence.  There 
was  a  curious,  sullen  smoulder  in  his  eyes,  quite  dif- 
ferent from  anything  she  had  seen  there  before.  The 
massive  lady,  who  seemed  not  to  have  noticed  it,  bore 
the  omission  of  introductions  with  fine  equanimity, 
asking  Zandrie  her  name,  and,  after  a  pause,  announc- 
ing her  own  to  be  Mrs.  Deming.  Then  she  turned  to 
her  unresponsive  host.  "  As  I  was  saying,  the  ways 
of  the  Lord  are  past  finding  out."  She  said  it  in  a 
bass  voice  and  with  conviction. 

He  did  not  contradict  her. 

"  Julian,"  said  Zandrie,  "  guess  what  I  Ve  got  in  my 


56  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


pocket."  She  had  left  the  bundle  of  clothes  outside 
the  door. 

"  I  believe,"  the  lady  went  on,  gathering  herself  up 
to  go  with  majestic  absence  of  haste,  "  I  believe  all  of 
us  need  chastening  now  and  then  —  even  ministers  of 
the  Lord.  Yes,  I  believe  that!  Though  of  course  I 
am  not  so  —  so  bigoted,  of  course,  as  to  believe  in  a 
direct  —  er  —  ratio  between  church  attendance  and 
such  severe  chastening  as  — " 

"  I  am !  "  Zandrie  proclaimed ;  and  Julian's  frown 
relaxed  a  little,  so  that  though  he  still  refused  to  meet 
her  eyes,  she  sighed  with  relief. 

"  She  does  n't  understand,"  Mrs.  Deming  said  — 
and  was  quite  right.  "  Little  girls  should  n't  interrupt. 
As  we  were  saying;  —  of  course  I  am  not  so  bigoted 
as  -r- as  that;  yet  at  the  time  when  you  wholly  refused 
to  attend  worship  except  upon  conditions, —  even  at 
that  time  I  could  n't  help  feeling  —  You  '11  forgive  my 
speaking  to  you  as  a  mother  ?  —  you  're  still  such  a 
very  young  man.  I  thought  to  myself  at  that  time  — " 

"Oh,  he  is  n't  young!" 

"  A  very  uncontrolled,  disrespectful  little  girl,"  the 
deep,  unruffled  voice  went  on.  "  I  'm  afraid  she  tires 
you.  As  I  was  saying  — " 

"  Julian !  " —  Zandrie  spoke  with  surpassing  sweet- 
ness — "  let's  pretend  this  bed  's  an  automobile,  and 
every  one  off  it,  cows  in  the  road." 

The  silence  that  ensued  might  have  been  dramatic 


DEALING   WITH    TREACHERY      57 

but  for  the  creaking  of  Mrs.  Deming  's  waist.  "  Don't 
be  distressed  on  my  account,"  she  said  with  tactful 
serenity.  "  I  am  coming  soon  again,  of  course.  Very 
often,  in  fact.  And  Mr.  Deming  as  soon  as  his  lum- 
bago permits.  We  consider  you  as  one  of  our  parish- 
ioners, you  know,  on  your  father's  account.  He  was 
such  a  loss  —  such  an  irredeemable  loss  to  the  church." 

As  she  stood  buttoning  a  large  black  glove  and  look- 
ing down  at  the  son  of  the  dead  loss,  though  his  face 
gave  no  invitation  to  sympathy,  her  own  visibly  soft- 
ened. "  Yes,  I  will  come  again  very  soon.  And  if 
there  is  anything  you  think  of  that  you  want,  you  '11 
send  for  one  of  us  ?  .  .  .  I  Ve  written  my  son 
George  about  you.  We  are  all  so  sorry." 

"  Oh,  oh'!  "  Zandrie  whispered  under  her  breath, 
"  take  care ! " 

But  Mrs.  Deming  was  perfectly  reckless.  "  Dr. 
Summers  has  told  us,  you  know.  It 's  a  very  hard  lot. 
Very  hard.  But  if  you  can  bear  it  in  patience  and 
trust  of  the  Lord's  mercy  —  he  is  very  merciful 
.  .  ."  She  was  actually  bending  as  though  to  kiss 
him  good-by ! 

"  Damned  merciful,"  said  the  Furness  boy  before 
the  kiss  could  reach  him. 

That  it  never  reached  him  perhaps  goes  without  say- 
ing. 

But  even  after  the  door  had  shut  —  with  unmajes- 
tic  haste  —  he  scowled  still ;  and  the  guest  who  stayed 


58  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


pouted  in  bewilderment.  For  how  could  one  sulk 
after  such  a  triumph  of  profanity?  Why,  it  had  all 
but  shocked  herself  —  Zandrie! 

As  the  moment  propitious  for  a  certain  announce- 
ment about  a  bundle  of  clothes  had  evidently  not  ar- 
rived, she  delivered  the  letter,  which,  after  reading  it 
in  a  silence  betokening  small  interest  and  less  pleasure, 
he  handed  back. 

"I  can  read  it?" 

No  answer,  which  she  took  for  consent. 
It  gave  an  address,  102  Elm  street,  and  then  began: 
"  My  dear,  dear  Julian," —  hey,  what  was  this !  — 
"  A  letter  just  received  from  our  old  friend,  Mrs.  Sum- 
mers, tells  me  of  your  plight.  You  blessed  child! 
Yes,  I  know  you  're  grown  up  now  and  right  tall  too, 
but  I  've  not  seen  you  since  that  happened, —  not 
since  you  visited  us  and  liked  the  singing  of  the  bobo- 
links. But  your  father  wrote  me  something  about 
how  big  and  strong  and  wicked  you  were  getting  to  be, 
spending  ever  so  much  more  time  with  horses  than 
Greek,  and  how  you  looked  more  like  me  than  any  one 
else ;  since  which  I  've  been  more  anxious  than  ever 
to  see  you,  of  course !  And  now  I  'm  coming  as  soon 
as  I  can  arrange  about  leaving  the  twins,  to  fetch  you 
home  with  me.  You  will  come,  dear,  won't  you? 
Since  your  uncle's  death  we  have  been  pretty  lonely 
here.  Marsh  and  Lee  are  almost  as  wild  to  see  you 
as  I,  your  very  loving  aunt,  Emily  Marshall  Wyn- 
dam." 


DEALING   WITH    TREACHERY      59 

Zandrie  exclaimed  in  dismay  at  this  obstacle  to  her 
own  designs  on  Julian's  person.  "  You  don't  want  to 
go,  do  you?  " 

"  Not  enthusiastic."  In  fact,  his  loving  aunt  would 
not  have  felt  flattered. 

Zandrie  smiled  happily.  "  Who  are  Marsh  and 
Lee?" 

"  Twins,  of  course." 

"How  old?" 

"  Don't  know,"  he  snapped.  "  Babies  —  five  or  six. 
Something  of  that  sort." 

"  How  cunning !  But  they  'd  bother  perhaps  —  boy- 
twins  that  age.  O  surely  you  'd  rather  — "  But  his 
mood  still  looked  inauspicious. 

"Rather  what?" 

But  while  she  debated  wistfully,  a  gust  of  pain  that 
tore  out  the  first  groan  she  had  ever  heard  from  him, 
settled  the  business.  She  jumped  to  his  side,  her 
hands  locked  against  her  throat,  for  at  first  there  was 
nothing  she  could  do.  At  last,  "  Water !  "  he  whis- 
pered, breathless  as  though  after  a  run.  And  then, 
after  she  had  given  it  and  disposed  of  her  tears,  she 
slipped  into  the  chair  and  drew  it  close.  "  Lucky, 
Mrs.  Cow-in-the-Road  was  out  of  it ! "  And  then, 
"  You  don't  want  any  one  around  but  me  anyway,  do 
you?  You  don't  want  to  visit  any  old  Aunt  Emily 
Marshall  Wyndams,  with  twins  especially!  And  I 
don't  want  to  go  there  anyway.  We  '11  have  more  fun 
alone,  always.  We  won't  even  have  a  nurse  around, 


60  ZANDRIE 


for  I  can  open  your  letters  for  you  and  take  care  of 
you  so  nicely.  And  we  '11  live  in  a  little  house  and 
pretend  from  morning  to  night ;  and  I  '11  put  little  red 
curtains  in  the  windows  and  cook  gingerbread  and  mix 
raspberry  shrub.  I  '11  do  all  the  cooking,  in  fact. 
And  sometimes  perhaps  we  '11  invite  poor  Mam'selle 
for  a  visit,  and  Mickie  too.  Mickie  swore  like  a 
trooper,  but  he  could  n't  hold  a  candle  to  you,  I  reckon. 
Papa  discharged  him  because  he  smelt  so  of  beer, 
but  you  wouldn't  mind  that?  I  loved  him  dread- 
fully. Julian  dearie!  you  're  not  listening!  " 

It  was  true;  and  the  object  of  his  attention  was  no 
other  than  the  convent  chaplain,  Father  Thomas,  stand- 
ing in  the  door-way.  Startling  though  the  apparition 
was,  Zandrie  clapped  a  hand  on  Julian's  shoulder  and 
presented  a  bold  front. 

Father  Thomas  was  not  a  garrulous  man.  Without 
a  word,  he  took  her  by  the  arm.  But  she  wrenched 
away,  and,  leaning  over,  dropped  her  great  news  in 
Julian's  ear :  "  My  clothes  are  all  out  in  the  hall  in 
a  lovely  bundle.  I  've  come  to  stay  forever !  " 

But  the  expected  smile  never  came. 

"Tell  him — "  Zandrie  pleaded,  "tell  him  to  go. 
If  we  're  going  to  live  together,  of  course  we  ought  to 
begin  right  now  when  you  need  me  so.  They  all  ought 
to  see  that."  She  wheeled  on  the  foe.  "  Father,  I  'm 
going  to  stay,  whether  Sister  Angela  says  so  or  not. 
Of  course  she  said  no  when  he  asked.  That 's  why 


DEALING   WITH    TREACHERY      61 

I  had  to  run  away.  But  he  wants  me,  and  so  —  Ju- 
lian !  tell  him  that  you  — " 

Her  voice  dropped,  for  his  hand  had  shot  out  to 
push  her  away. 

"  Good  heavens,  Zandrie !  What  does  it  mean?  I 
thought  — " 

"  Mean  ?  "  she  echoed. 

His  voice  was  harsh  doubtless  because  he  was  trou- 
bled for  her.  "  You  don't  mean  you  think  that  you 
—  After  what  Dr.  Summers  told  ?  You  were  there, 
I  think.  When  I  asked  Sister  Angela,  it  was  before 
that  —  when  I  thought  I  was  —  like  other  men.  I 
did  n't  know  what  I  was  saying." 

"  You  mean  you  don't  want  me  — " 

"Now?  After  what  Dr.  Summers  said?  Of 
course  not!"  He  had  turned  his  face  away.  "Of 
course  not !  "  he  repeated  sharply.  "  Take  her  away !  " 

At  that  she  began  to  understand  —  so  she  thought. 
Two  days  had  changed  her  friend  and  knight  into  a 
traitor  —  a  sullen  traitor  without  pity  for  the  havoc 
he  wrought. 

A  surge  of  grief  lifted  her  for  the  second  out  of 
her  childhood.  Turning  slowly  to  the  priest,  she  lifted 
a  finger  and  pointed  it  at  Julian.  "  He  is  a  liar! " 

It  was  not  until  she  had  picked  up  the  bundle  of 
clothes  and  was  half  way  down  the  corridor,  holding 
Father  Thomas's  hand,  that  the  sobs  came. 


CHAPTER  VI 

EXPLAINING  HOW  BOBOLINKS   MAY  COME  TO  BE 
AMONG    RAVENS 

Of  course  Sister  Isidore's  account  of  how  an  em- 
phatically secular  young  man  came  to  enter  a  nun- 
nery, is  as  detailed  as  one  could  wish  or  endure.  But 
when  Zandrie  tried  to  tell  that  young  man  how  she 
happened  to  be  there  herself  —  well,  what  does  one 
expect  of  a  bobolink  but  just  such  a  scrappy,  loose- 
jointed  performance?  Her  likeness  to  the  giddy 
black-and-white  bird  must  have  been  striking,  by  the 
way,  if  Julian  saw  it  even  by  twilight. 

She  forgot  to  mention,  for  instance,  that  her  fath- 
er's family  tree  grew  in  Ireland,  or  that  its  top 
branches  were  bristling  with  the  stiff est  of  Protestant 
twigs, —  though  this  item  appears  hardly  to  explain 
her  presence  in  a  most  Catholic  sisterhood,  either.  It 
would  have  seemed  more  to  the  point  if  she  had  told 
him  how  her  father,  so  far  from  being  a  stiff-necked 
Protestant,  rather  plumed  himself  on  a  sweet-tem- 
pered scepticism  which  he  called  tolerance.  When  his 
brother  Jason  came  to  America,  for  instance,  and  fell 
in  love  with  the  niece  of  a  Catholic  bishop,  he  merely 

62 


BOBOLINKS    AMONG    RAVENS      63 

wrote  him  a  letter  of  good-natured  raillery;  and  when 
Jason  married  her  and  became  a  devout  Romanist 
himself,  he  laughed.  There  was  a  drachm  of  con- 
tempt, to  be  sure,  in  the  laugh.  But  six  months  later, 
he  married  a  Romanist  himself  —  his  new  sister-in- 
law's  cousin,  whom  he  had  met  at  Jason's  wedding  — 
and  promised  easily  enough  that  his  children  should 
be  brought  up  in  their  mother's  faith.  Why  not? 
One  form  of  religion  was  as  harmless  as  another. 
And  he  kept  his  promise  too,  though  his  wife  died  at 
the  birth  of  their  first  child,  and  by  the  time  that  the 
little  girl  had  grown  up  and  taken  religious  vows  and 
become  Sister  Angela,  Sub-Prioress  of  St.  Scholas- 
tica's,  he  had  lost  some  of  his  cheerful  tolerance.  The 
germ  of  stiff-necked  Protestantism  had  developed,  in 
fact,  into  something  sturdy  enough  to  build  a  spiked 
wall  between  himself  and  his  brother.  For  Sister 
Angela  was  at  that  time  his  only  child,  and  he  held 
Jason  responsible  for  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  her 
suicide. 

It  was  true  that  Jason  and  his  wife  had  been  more 
than  godparents  to  the  motherless  little  girl  during  the 
years  when  her  father  was  traveling  on  his  mining 
business ;  and  that  she  picked  up  somehow,  somewhere, 
a  remarkably  Catholic  education.  But  in  those  days 
her  proficiency  in  saint-lore  amused  him  vastly.  It 
was  not  till  fourteen  years  later,  when  she  and  her 
cousin  Mary  had  become  nuns  at  St.  Scholastica's,  that 
he  cursed  Jason  and  all  Catholics  living. 


64  Z  A  N  D  R I  E 


To  be  sure,  poor  Alexander  could  ill  spare  his 
daughter;  whereas  Jason  had  two  besides  Mary, —  to 
whose  memory,  by  the  way,  St.  Scholastica's  owed  its 
great  gate.  But  of  the  other  two  daughters,  one  died 
soon  after  Mary  had  taken  her  vows,  and  the  other 
married  and  moved  to  Australia,  leaving  Jason  prac- 
tically as  childless  as  his  brother.  That  fact  removed 
at  least  the  spikes  from  the  wall  between  them.  And 
after  the  death  of  Jason's  wife,  it  became  low  enough 
to  be  climbed;  and  Alexander  himself  climbed  over 
now  and  then  —  at  least  till  the  coming  of  Miss  An- 
toinette Bonneau. 

She  was  a  Virginia  belle,  very  proud  of  her  Hugue- 
not blood,  and  as  fond  as  most  of  us  of  having  her 
way.  And  she  usually  had  it.  When  she  met  Mr. 
Alexander  Donallon,  for  instance  .  .  .  He  was 
twenty-three  years  older  than  she,  but  in  spite  of  all 
that  people  said  about  her  wanting  him  for  his  money 
—  and  he  actually  had  made  a  small  fortune  in  min- 
ing stocks  —  she  probably  married  him  just  because 
he  was  still  an  uncommonly  engaging  fellow,  ready  to 
laugh  at  her  wit  as  well  as  his  own,  as  lavish  of  af- 
fection as  of  money,  very  self -sacrificing  whenever 
another's  need  happened  to  catch  his  attention,  ab- 
surdly impulsive  even  at  fifty.  He  knew  twenty-eight 
songs,  which  he  sang  in  a  ringing  tenor,  accompany- 
ing himself  on  a  guitar  with  great  gusto.  And  he 
wrote  stories  for  half  a  dozen  popular  magazines, — 
under  as  many  noms  de  plume.  Why  should  n't  Miss 


BOBOLINKS    AMONG   RAVENS       65 

Bonneau  have  liked  him?  During  the  first  two  years 
of  their  married  life,  they  traveled  together.  Then 
Zandrie  was  born,  and  they  settled  in  Baltimore. 

On  the  rare  occasions  when  Jason  Donation  saw 
his  new  niece, —  and  he  was  never  left  alone  with  her 
for  a  minute  —  he  pronounced  her  spoiled.  But  what 
did  his  opinion  signify?  her  mother  demanded.  He, 
a  judge  of  children?  —  a  practically  childless  old  man 
who  divided  his  time  between  law  and  religion,  and 
the  Catholic  religion  at  that  —  and  the  division  being 
very  uneven,  moreover,  in  favor  of  that  religion! 
"  Why,  I  reckon  he  could  trip  up  his  own  father  con- 
fessor on  his  Breviary,"  she  said ;  "  and  as  for  his 
fastings,  he  must  be  the  most  economical  boarder  in 
Maryland.  He  a  judge  of  children!  " 

Yet  Mam'selle  herself  once  admitted  in  a  pet,  that 
he  was  right  in  pronouncing  Mile.  Zandrie  "  affreuse- 
ment  spoil'."  And  really,  when  one  considers,  what 
else  could  one  expect  ?  .  .  .  since  her  mother,  be- 
ing a  spoiled  child  herself,  could  have  no  proper  idea 
of  discipline,  and  her  father  directed  most  of  his  ener- 
gies to  the  spoiling  business. 

After  her  mother's  death,  when  Zandrie  was  eight, 
she  and  he  became  great  comrades.  He  used  to  wake 
her  in  the  morning  with  little  songs  of  his  own  mak- 
ing, such  as 

"  Robin's  caught  a  worm 

And  cooked  it  for  the  nest 


66  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


or 


Robin  got  up  early, 
But  Zandrie  is  n't  dressed." 


"The  sun  is  up,  and  the  birdies  sing 
'  Tee-cheep !     O  fie  on  a  lazy  thing ! ' ' 

And  once  it  was  — 

"  The  pussy-cat  climbed  up  the  tree 
And  liked  the  view  most  thoroughly, 
And  never  cried  until  he  found 
It  rather  hard  to  reach  the  ground." 

Whereupon  Zandrie  bounced  up,  thinking  that  Launce- 
lot  was  "  stuck  "  in  the  cherry  tree.  "  O  no,"  her 
father  said,  " —  no  more  than  you  and  I.  That  was 
just  a  little  moral  tale." 

Whatever  she  demanded  of  him,  she  got,  though  on 
a  certain  condition  that  became  a  formula  at  last  — 
a  ceremony.  "  Promise,"  it  began,  "  that  you  '11 
never,  never — " 

"  Be  Catholic,"  she  would  interrupt  in  her  usual 
prodigious  hurry.  "  Promise  never,  never,  never! 
NOW ! "  At  which  point  the  rubric  called  for  ter- 
rific embrace,  followed  by  instant  fulfillment. 

For,  Jason's  fanaticisms  and  austerities  of  life  had 
come  to  typify,  to  his  brother's  mind,  the  religion  that 
had  drawn  Sister  Angela  to  what  he  called  her  death 
of  mind  and  heart.  "  To  renounce  one's  right  of 


BOBOLINKS    AMONG    RAVENS      67 

judgment  and  will,  to  the  glory  of  God,"  he  said, 
"  is  the  deepest  insult  one  can  pay  to  God."  When  his 
first  daughter  took  the  veil  and  "  her  life,"  the  iron 
entered  his  soul.  He  would  take  care  that  his  younger 
fell  into  no  danger. 

Yet  he  died  without  appointing  a  guardian.  Per- 
haps as  with  other  ardent  lovers  of  life,  the  idea 
that  he  was  really  to  die  some  day,  had  never  caught 
his  attention.  To  the  surprise  of  all  but  his  bankers, 
he  died  in  debt. 

Jason,  meanwhile,  had  amassed  a  goodly  sum  of 
which  he  spent  little,  and  had  made  a  will,  too,  be- 
fore Alexander's  death,  bequeathing  half  his  fortune 
to  his  daughter  in  Australia,  and  the  rest  to  St. 
Scholastica's.  But  he  was  willing  enough  to  provide 
the  means  of  subsistence  and  soul's  salvation  for  his 
brother's  little  girl, —  given  the  medium;  and  Sister 
Angela  became  the  medium.  Her  Priory  was  already 
in  Mr.  Jason  Donallon's  debt  for  its  triple-arched 
gate;  it  may  have  had  inklings  of  future  indebtedness; 
and  Sister  Angela  was  in  a  position  of  authority.  So 
it  was  not  improper  that  her  sister  should  be  allowed 
to  board  at  the  Priory,  at  its  benefactor's  expense, 
during  the  short  vacations  granted  by  a  convent  school. 

And  so  it  comes  about  quite  simply,  after  all,  that 
the  daughter  of  Alexander  Donallon  calls  herself,  in 
her  dramas  of  the  Knight,  "  Zandrie  of  the  Con- 
vent." 


CHAPTER  VII 

CHIEFLY   AT   OUR   LADY'S 

That  high  wrath  in  which  she  parted  from  her 
Knight,  melted  into  grief  the  third  day  after.  For  on 
that  day  Uncle  Jason  had  dropped  from  the  sky  into 
Father  Thomas's  cottage,  and  transported  her  to  a 
certain  Academy  of  Our  Lady  of  Ransom. 

Life  promised  to  become  a  stirring  affair  at  this 
rate;  for  when  one  counted  the  days  carefully  on  a 
calendar,  it  appeared  that  she  had  been  at  St.  Scholas- 
tica's  only  three  weeks  and  a  half  on  St.  Polycarp's 
day,  which  was  the  day  of  Julian's  coming;  and  only 
six  weeks  and  two  days  when  she  was  haled  away  to 
school. 

"  I  'd  just  as  lief  go  with  you,"  she  told  Uncle 
Jason,  "  and  I  'd  just  as  lief  never  come  back."  But 
this  extremity  of  listlessness  was  due  to  an  encounter 
with  Sister  Angela,  who  had  refused  to  pack  any  of 
Zandrie's  treasures  in  the  suitcase  that  was  receiving 
her  concise  outfit,  and  finding  the  gold  eagle,  had  en- 
closed it  in  an  envelope  labeled  "  Property  of  my  sis- 
ter A.  O.  D.  Her  father's  last  birthday  gift  to  her," 
and  put  it  away.  The  battle  over  the  collar  of 

68 


CHIEFLY    AT    OUR    LADY'S       69 

Launcelot  ended  ingloriously,  too.  So  the  healing 
words  of  Sister  Isidore  were  sorely  needed ;  "  Mind 
what  I  told  ye  now  about  your  friend  —  Julius  ?  It 's 
always  upside-down  a  name  comes  in  my  head.  Mind 
then, —  he  was  all  in  the  right,  poor  soul.  It 's  just 
because  he  was  loving  ye  so  —  which  ye  '11  be  under- 
standing better  when  ye  're  old  as  me." 

And  because  her  conviction  was  catching,  or  be- 
cause wrath  against  Sister  Angela  left  room  for  no 
other,  her  anger  against  Julian  fell  away  and  on  the 
way  to  the  station  she  sat  up  firmly  in  the  coupe,  an- 
nouncing that  she  would  say  good-by  to  him. 

"  To  what  ? "  Her  uncle  was  reading  Poire's 
"  Triple  Crown  of  the  Mother  of  God."  But  when 
her  eloquence  had  compelled  his  attention,  the  result 
of  his  final  words  —  and  they  were  very  final  —  com- 
pelled the  attention  of  passers  by;  for  Zandrie  wept. 
To  be  accurate,  she  bawled.  And  Uncle  Jason,  thrust- 
ing the  "  Triple  Crown  "  into  a  pocket,  said  "damn," 
very  softly,  but  for  the  first  time  since  his  August  re- 
treat. 

Yet,  although  thwarted  in  a  spoken  apology  to  Ju- 
lian, she  could  write  it. 

"Academy  of  Our  Lady  of  Ransome, 

Feb.  Eleventh, 
"JULIAN  DEARY, 

"  I  am  sorry  I  was  so  passionite  and  sinfull  and  impollite 
and  won't  you  please  write  and  say  you  excuse  me,  I  think 
you  were  so  good  to  want  me  at  all  and  Sister  Isidoor  says 


70  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


you  were  quite  wright  to  change  your  mind  after  what  Doc. 
Summers  told  you  though  I  can't  see  why  at  all,  but  she  was 
very  pozitive.  I  am  at  hording  school  (but  it  is  a  convent 
too)  and  I  like  it  better  than  at  St.  Sckolasticha's  only  we 
all  have  to  wear  black  unaforms  no  matter  whether  anyone 
is  dead  or  not  and  I  would  like  to  see  someone  in  a  red 
dress,  I  would  like  a  pink  dress  when  I  get  over  morning 
for  Papa.  We  wear  white  vails  to  Sunday  Mass.  I  like 
compisition  but  not  arrithemetic,  I  have  french  with  the  big 
girls  because  Mile,  was  French  and  Mama's  ansisters  too, 
and  I  know  it  all  but  the  awfull  gramar.  It  is  very  strict 
here  but  perhaps  I  will  be  good  if  you  tell  me  too.  I  do 
love  you  Julian  deary  but  I  must  stop  now. 

"  Your  Loving, 

"  No.  73. 

"  P.  S.    We  have  nombers  here  and  I  am  73. 

"  Your  Loving, 
"  ALEXANDRA  OWEN  DONALLON." 

The  envelope,  directed  to  "  Mr.  J.  Furnis,  At  the 
Hospitle," —  town  and  state  duly  indicated  —  was 
dropped  into  Our  Lady's  mail-box,  unsealed  as  the 
rules  order.  Another  clause  in  the  prospectus  reads 
that  "  visits  and  correspondence  outside  the  immediate 
family  are  not  allowed  without  permission  from  par- 
ents or  guardians,  and  the  sanction  of  the  Institution," 
—  according  to  which,  the  letter  to  Mr.  J.  Furnis  was 
enclosed  in  a  respectful  request  to  Mr.  J.  Donallon  to 
forward  it  if  he  saw  fit.  And  he  saw  fit  —  perhaps 
by  way  of  expiation  for  that  violence  in  the  coupe. 

An  answer  arrived  a  month  later,  but  the  super- 
scription gave  the  street  and  New  England  town  that 


CHIEFLY    AT    OUR    LADY'S       71 

headed  the  letter  to  Julian  which  she  had  read  at  the 
hospital,  and  was  in  fact  from  the  same  person. 

"  DEAR  ZANDRIE, 

"  It  is  so  hard  for  Julian  to  write,  I  am  doing  it  for 
him.  I  am  his  aunt,  by  the  way,  and  have  brought  him  up 
north  here,  to  live  with  us  —  my  two  little  boys  and  me.  In 
the  first  place,  he  wants  me  to  assure  you  that  there  is  noth- 
ing to  excuse.  You  were  good  to  him  always,  he  says,  and 
he  will  never  forget  you.  I  wish  you  were  here,  for  it  is 
easy  to  see  that  his  hard  lot  grows  harder  to  bear,  every 
day.  He  was  such  an  active  boy !  And  he  can  never  ride 
again,  or  even  walk  except  with  crutches, —  all  the  surgeons 
say  so.  Is  n't  it  dreadful !  I  was  never  sorrier  for  any- 
body, or  more  at  a  loss  how  to  help.  The  other  day  I  had 
the  bright  idea  that  he  might  amuse  himself  learning  the 
violin;  but  to-day  the  doctor  told  me  that  his  left  wrist  that 
he  broke  so  badly,  is  going  to  be  too  stiff.  He  never  has 
cared  much  for  reading,  and  I  am  at  my  wits'  end.  I  do 
hope  the  Sisters  will  let  you  write  again. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 
"  EMILY  MARSHALL  WYNDAM." 

There  was  an  enclosure  which  she  kissed  —  "  Dear 
Zandrie,  I  love  you  too.  J.  M.  F."  But  she  kissed 
it  in  the  privacy  of  her  curtained  alcove  after  the  dor- 
mitory lights  were  out,  so  no  one  knew  of  the  scandal. 

A  file  of  bulletins  reporting  Miss  Donation's  prog- 
ress at  Our  Lady's  was  found  among  her  guardian's 
documents;  and  their  incontestable  evidence  shows 
arithmetic  to  have  been  a  stumbling-block.  Latin 
grammar,  little  better.  French  and  German  conversa- 


72  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


tion,  on  the  other  hand,  make  a  proud  showing. 
Church  history  leaves  much  to  be  desired ;  but  English 
and  Universal  Mediaeval  histories  are  marked  high, 
spelling  rises  slowly  but  steadily,  and  English  com- 
position soars.  On  the  June  bulletin  of  the  fourth 
year,  it  is  even  starred  with  a  note :  "  We  consider 
her  productivity  of  imagination  and  fluency  of  diction 
above  the  ordinary.  She  has  actually  composed  a 
small  drama  which  her  classmates  performed  before 
the  School  last  week." 

During  the  first  six  months,  that  productivity  of 
imagination  had  employed  itself  in  the  devising  of 
naughtiness,  Julian  having  issued  no  commands  to  the 
contrary.  Then,  doubtless  by  virtue  of  that  fluency 
of  diction,  she  was  promoted  to  Sister  Andrea's  rhet- 
oric class,  which  was  really  for  Big  Girls  only  — 
twelve  years  old  at  the  least !  —  and  the  affection  that 
blazed  in  Zandrie's  heart  for  that  impassive  lady  was 
only  as  inexplicable  as  it  was  fervent.  And  while  her 
power  lasted,  the  nun  used  it  to  good  purpose.  But 
she  lost  it  later,  partly  through  her  own  fault,  partly 
through  the  advent  of  a  new  influence  in  the  small 
person  of  Miss  Annabel  Bean,  aged  sixteen,  come 
for  a  "  finishing  year  "  at  Our  Lady's. 

The  day  after  her  coming,  Miss  Bean  announced  her 
intention  of  hearing  no  more  masses  —  not  to  the 
school  authorities,  to  be  sure,  but  to  a  circle  of  Big 
Girls  including  Zandrie. 


CHIEFLY    AT    OUR    LADY'S       73 

To  think  that  Zandrie  of  the  Convent  is  a  Big 
Girl  already! 

Miss  Bean  explained  that  she  was  a  Protestant,  and 
not  going  to  mass  for  anybody,  if  she  was  the  only 
non-Catholic  —  she  swelled  visibly  —  in  the  whole 
school. 

"  But  you  're  not !  " 

The  girls  wheeled  on  Zandrie.     "  Who  's  another?  " 

"I  am!" 

Exclamations,  protests,  laughter,  buzzed  about  her. 

"  I  'm  not  a  Catholic."  Her  cheeks  burned.  "  I  'd 
—  I  'd  forgotten !  " 

"  But  you  were  baptized  as  soon  as  you  came." 

"  You  're  going  to  be  confirmed  at  Easter, —  Sister 
Praxedes  says  so." 

"  You  say  your  rosary." 

"  Because  I  love  the  dear  Virgin,"  said  Zandrie, 
tears  in  her  eyes  now. 

"  And  you  'd  be  a  heretic  if  you  did  n't !  Annabel 's 
a  heretic." 

"  All  Protestants  are  n't  heretics,"  said  Zandrie. 
"  Sister  Andrea  said  so." 

"  O — h — h,  but  they  are !  Sister  Praxedes  said  so 
yesterday  at  Christian  Instruction !  " 

"  I  did  n't  hear  her,"  said  Zandrie. 

"  You  never  listen, —  you  said  you  did  n't." 

"  You  're  always  writing  stories  in  your  head." 

"Sister  Andrea  may  be  a  heretic  herself!"     This 


74  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


unlawful  suggestion  became  a  bone  of  contention  from 
which  Zandrie  slipped  away.  She  was  trembling,  poor 
child. 

For,  had  she  really  broken  her  promise  to  her  father 
and  turned  Catholic  after  all? 

It  was  true  that  she  had  been  baptized  at  Our  La- 
dy's ;  but  true  also  that  she  had  eyed  the  operation  with 
extreme  disfavor,  inasmuch  as  Uncle  Jason  had  been 
sponsor.  "  Will  it  make  me  Catholic  ?  "  she  had  asked. 
But  they  said  no, —  only  a  child  of  God  and  Holy 
Church. 

"  You  can  love  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  sit  at  mass 
and  say  your  prayers,"  Sister  Andrea  once  said,  "  with- 
out being  a  Catholic."  And  by  dint  of  avoiding  an- 
tagonism and  quieting  fear,  Sister  Andrea  had  put 
questions  to  sleep  at  last. 

Yet  not  all  the  credit  belongs  to  the  Sister,  either, 
for  there  was  a  certain  radiant  person  besides,  with 
whom  Zandrie  was  always  galloping  on  horseback 
through  shifting  landscapes  that  one  never  quite  saw, 
or  passing  through  splendidly  improbable  adventures  in 
a  palace  built  of  sunsets, —  always  during  those  Chris- 
tian Instructions  that  seemed  such  heaven-sent  oppor- 
tunities for  writing  stories  in  one's  head !  The  Radi- 
ant Person's  name  was  Julian,  of  course ;  but  she  never 
spoke  it  to  any  one  —  no,  'never !  —  though  he  was  the 
chief  of  all  her  dream  persons',  and  as  responsible  as 
Sister  Andrea  for  her  having  forgotten  a  promise  to 
her  father. 


CHIEFLY    AT    OUR    LADY'S        75 

"  Was  my  father  a  real  heretic  ?  "  she  asked  Sister 
Andrea  now. 

Well,  yes,  said  the  nun, —  if  he  wilfully  refused  to 
profess  the  Faith,  and  hated  Catholics  really. 

But  those  words,  "  profess  the  Faith,"  brought  a 
sudden  vivid  memory.  Julian  himself  did  not  profess 
the  Faith,  for  she  had  heard  Sister  Angela  say  so 
under  cincumstances  that  left  no  room  for  doubt!  So 
he  was  doomed  to  eternal  fire  too !  "  I  do  wish  every 
one  were  Catholic!  "  she  sobbed;  "  but  /  can't  be  one. 
I  promised  and  promised." 

And  then  Sister  Andrea  made  a  faux  pas,  which 
was  the  beginning  of  her  loss  of  power;  for  she  tried 
to  explain  that  Zandrie's  promise  was  not  binding. 

Zandrie  lay  awake  far  into  the  night,  convincing 
herself  that  for  all  that  the  nuns  might  say,  a  promise 
was  a  promise!  And  when  she  fell  asleep,  it  was 
upon  a  great  resolve.  If  her  father  and  mother  —  and 
Julian  —  were  heretics,  she  would  share  their  lot. 
Perhaps,  considering  how  much  she  would  really  have 
liked  to  be  a  Catholic,  the  Virgin  could  arrange  for 
some  exceptions  in  her  favor,  allowing  her,  for  in- 
stance, to  relieve  in  little  ways  the  future  sufferings  of 
those  lost  souls  she  loved.  She  would  begin  to-mor- 
row to  offer  a  thousand  rosaries  for  that  one  inten- 
tion. But  in  any  case  .  .  .  Well,  it  is  plain 
enough  that  Zandrie  was  a  heroine.  The  thousand 
rosaries  alone  prove  that ! 

Miss  Annabel   Bean,  graciously  ignoring  the   fact 


76  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


that  Zandrie  was  two  years  younger,  now  became  her 
inseparable  companion, —  though  the  phrase  is  a  very 
wild  poetic  license,  the  Powers  allowing  Our  Lady's 
pupils  just  about  one  hour  of  free  intercourse  a  day. 
The  December  bulletin  to  Mr.  Donation  has  a  note  in 
Sister  Praxedes'  writing :  "  The  deplorable  decline 
in  deportment  we  believe  due  to  an  undesirable  influ- 
ence on  the  part  of  a  new  pupil,  which  we  ar«\  striving 
to  check.  We  fear,  however,  that  Miss  Donation  is 
incapable  of  long-sustained  effort  in  any  one  direc- 
tion." And  in  ond  of  the  letters  found  with  the  file 
of  bulletins,  the  Sister  Principal  has  written  —  with 
what  knitting  of  brows  under  her  white  coif,  one  can 
imagine  — "  We  have  directed  our  attention  most  con- 
scientiously to  her  spiritual  needs,  hitherto  with  ap- 
parent success.  The  idea  of  resistance  has  reappeared, 
however,  chiefly  in  the  form  of  opposition  to  confirma- 
tion, and  though  we  find  it  difficult  to  deal  with,  we 
are  employing  our  utmost  of  tact,  and  pray  for  ulti- 
mate success.  It  seems  best,  meanwhile,  to  postpone 
the  confirmation  until  she  is  in  that  state  of  heart  " — 
et  cetera.  The  perplexities  of  the  Sister  Principal 
were  never  few.  They  multiplied  grievously,  that 
year. 

Early  in  May,  Uncle  Jason  wrote  the  first  letter 
that  his  ward  ever  received  from  him : 

"  MY  DEAR  NIECE  : — 

"  Noting  the  continuance  of  unsatisfactory  reports,  I  wish, 
without  emphasizing  the  obligation  under  which  you  stand 


CHIEFLY    AT    OUR    LADY'S        77 

to  myself,  to  express  my  disappointment.  You  may  recall 
that,  in  my  pleasure  with  those  former  good  reports,  I  prom- 
ised, last  June,  the  reward  of  a  pink  dress.  I  think  it  best 
to  abide  by  that  promise,  at  the  same  time  deploring  the 
necessity  for  having  had  to  consider  its  withdrawal.  I  will 
instruct  the  Superioress  to  delegate  some  one  to  attend  to  the 
purchase  of  the  gown." 

But  this  was  also  his  last  letter  to  her,  for  six 
weeks  later,  on  the  night  of  the  Vigil  of  John  the  Bap- 
tist, he  was  found  dead  at  his  prie-Dieu. 

It  is  due  to  his  naughty  niece  to  record  that,  though 
she  had  seen  him  hardly  a  dozen  times  in  her  life,  she 
shed  two  tears  of  contrition  to  every  one  of  regret  for 
the  pink  dress  which  must  now  be  exchanged  for 
black.  And  that  means  that  she  was  very  contrite  in- 
deed. In  spite  of  Miss  Bean's  assurance  that  Prot- 
estants never,  never  said  rosaries,  she  offered  twenty- 
five  very  carefully  for  his  soul,  and  resolved  in  honor 
of  his  memory  to  amend  her  ways.  Whether  the  re- 
solve would  have  borne  fruit  at  Our  Lady's,  can  never 
be  known ;  for  Uncle  Jason,  it  seems,  had  not  changed 
that  will  which  bequeathed  half  his  property  to  his 
daughter  in  Australia  and  the  other  half  to  St.  Scho- 
lastica's;  and  the  superiors  of  the  Priory  agreed  that, 
after  four  and  a  half  years  of  the  most  Catholic  edu- 
cation that  Our  Lady's  afforded,  a  home  in  their  own 
retreat  house  was  the  most  that  a  penniless  ward  had  a 
right  to  expect.  A  novena  of  masses  was  being  sung 
for  Uncle  Jason's  soul  when  Zandrie  came  to  that 
home  in  June. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHEN   BOBOLINKS    FLY   NORTH 

Now  for  a  leap  over  two  and  a  half  years,  into  the 
middle  of  the  office  of  Dr.  Summers,  who  is  to  be  yet 
more  startled  presently  by  Zandrie,  who  has  come  to 
consult  him  about  her  soul.  And  he  has  never  believed 
in  souls,  as  every  one  knows. 

"  I  'm  the  little  girl  from  St.  Scholastica's,"  she  an- 
nounces, " — grown  up!  Remember?  —  though  it 
was  seven  whole  years  ago,  to  be  sure." 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  says  the  doctor  who  does  n't  be- 
lieve in  souls,  " —  the  little  run-away !  " 

"  And  I  've  run  away  this  afternoon, —  without 
climbing  the  peach  tree  by  the  wall,  though,  for  Father 
Thomas's  gate  was  unlocked  and  I  just  stepped  out 
while  he  was  giving  Reverend  Mother  the  Holy  Viati- 
cum —  for  she  's  really  dying,  poor  soul.  She  has  a 
Catholic  doctor  of  course,  but  I  've  come  to  you  just 
because  they  said  you  were  n't  Catholic." 

"  Er  —  no,"  says  the  doctor,  "  I  'm  not." 

"Nor  I!" 

But  he  received  this  revelation  unmoved. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "  I  Ve  got  to  be  a  heretic,  so 

78 


BOBOLINKS    FLY    NORTH       79 

I  'd  better  be  finding  out  a  little  more  about  it.  I  can't 
give  up  the  Blessed  Virgin ;  but  I  'd  like  to  be  heretical 
in  all  other  ways.  If  you  don't  mind  telling  me  all 
you  believe — " 

The  doctor,  seeing  her  very  much  in  earnest,  bounced 
up  from  his  chair,  instead  of  bellowing  with  laughter, 
as  he  afterwards  told  the  Reverend  George  Deming 
that  he  was  about  to  do.  "  My  dear  young  lady,  you 
—  I'm  afraid  you've  come  to  the  wrong  party!" 

"You  mean  you're  Catholic  after  all?" 

"  God  bless  us,  no ! "  He  frowned  frightfully. 
"  I  'm  a  fine,  well-browned,  triple-baked  heretic,  that 's 
all.  Always  glad  to  meet  another !  " 

"  Of  course,"  says  Zandrie  gravely,  "  I  hate  hell. 
In  fact,  if  I  think  about  it  at  all,  it  makes  me  unhap- 
py —  Oh,  very !  —  so  that  last  year  I  almost  gave  in 
to  being  confirmed.  But  then  I  took  heart  again, 
and  made  a  scene."  She  smiled  contentedly.  "  But 
if  I  'm  going  to  hell  at  all,  I  may  as  well  go  for  a 
mighty  good  reason.  And  a  heretic  friend  of  mine 
could  only  say  that  she  did  n't  pay  much  attention  to 
saints  or  His  Holiness  —  or  the  Blessed  Virgin!  And 
I  love  to  say  rosaries  to  the  dear  Virgin;  so  you  see 
I  've  come  — " 

But  here  the  doctor  wheeled  on  her.  "  My  dear 
young  lady !  You  must  excuse  me,  but  this  is  my  office 
hour  and  I  —  you  understand  —  patients  waiting. 
But  I  —  I  'm  quite  the  wrong  fellow,  anyhow."  But 
perhaps  her  disappointment  penetrated  the  hedge  of 


8o  ZANDRIE 


his  dismay,  for,  "  Look  here,"  he  added,  "  I  would  n't 
worry  much  about  —  about  this  hell  business.  Not  a 
bit.  /  don't !  In  fact  ...  In  fact,  I  '11  stake 
my  hat  on  there  not  being  any  hell  —  for  anybody." 

She  pondered  this  new  and  pleasant  suggestion. 
"  Annabel  Bean  believed  in  hell." 

"  Sorry  to  hear  it." 

"And  Annabel  was  a  heretic  —  a  Protestant." 

"  No  doubt.  But  for  my  part  —  you  see,  I  differ 
somewhat  from  most  heretics  in  not  putting  much  stock 
in  hell,  or  in  heaven  either." 

"  Nor  purgatory  ?  " 

"  Nor  purgatory.  Bless  my  soul.  I  should  hope 
not!" 

A  profound  pause ;  at  the  end  of  which  Zandrie  mur- 
mured "  Saints  defend  us ! "  simply  because  she  had 
no  breath  for  more.  At  this  rate  heresy  might  prove 
more  than  she  bargained  for! 

The  doctor  meanwhile  paced  the  floor  like  a  caged 
bear.  "  Hold  up !  "  he  said  at  last.  "  You  'd  rather 
not  be  a  Catholic  —  that 's  your  point  ?  "  And  when 
she  had  nodded  very  gravely,  he  snatched  up  his  tele- 
phone receiver.  "  Nine  one.  Hello !  George  Dem- 
ing?  Busy,  George?  .  .  .  Well,  whatever  you 're 
doing,  don't  do  it !  I  Ve  got  a  case  for  you  —  more 
in  your  sky-line.  Young  woman  from  Priory.  Tired 
of  popery.  Wants  a  change.  Anxious  to  be  a  here- 
tic but  does  n't  know  how.  Came  to  me !  Footed  it 
all  the  way  in  town.  .  .  .  No,  not  dressed  like 


BOBOLINKS    FLY    NORTH       81 

one.  Too  young,  anyhow  .  .  .  Hey?  .  .  . 
Don't  know,  but  —  used  to  see  her  there  when  I  at- 
tended Furness.  Sort  of  ward  of  one  of  the  superiors, 
come  to  remember.  Patients  impatient  in  waiting 
room,  or  I  'd  .  .  .  All  right,  that 's  the  boy !  " 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Zandrie  and  young 
George  Deming,  who  married  the  daughter  of  Dr. 
Summers,  met  for  an  epoch-making  discussion  of  how 
not  to  be  a  Catholic.  For  in  spite  of  having  won 
fifty  dollars  on  a  race,  by  the  Furness  Boy's  aid, 
George  had  been  a  settled  parson  for  four  years,  and 
now  actually  occupied  his  father's  old  pulpit  in  the 
First  Presbyterian  Church. 

As  the  doctor  opened  the  door  to  let  her  out,  "  Poor 
Furness,"  he  had  remarked,  " — no  more  visits  from 
runaways  now.  I  reckon  they  don't  grow  up  there  in 
New  England."  And  she  would  have  liked  to  ask 
if  he  had  had  any  news  of  Julian.  But  he  was  in  too 
much  of  a  hurry;  and  an  hour  later,  she  had  forgotten 
the  remark  —  for  the  time,  at  least.  For  that  inter- 
view with  the  Reverend  George  was  interesting.  In 
fact,  when  she  got  back  to  the  convent,  it  was  with 
her  brain  awhirl  and  a  heart  that  might  well  beat  fast, 
considering  that  tucked  quite  close  to  it  under  her  cape 
was  a  certain  pamphlet  that  had  neither  a  bishop's 
"  Imprimatur  "  nor  a  censor's  "  Nihil  Obstat  "  on  the 
back  of  its  title  page.  It  was  a  pamphlet  not  in  "  Our 
Lady's  "  library  nor  on  the  retreat-house  book-shelves. 
In  fact,  it  was  a  pamphlet  that  good  Catholics  seldom 


82  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


read.  To  be  wholly  frank,  it  was  "  Popery  Disclosed ; 
Six  Sermons  by  the  Rev.  John  Deming,  M.A."  No 
wonder  that  Sister  Bobolink's  heart  beat  faster  than 
usual,  even  though  the  sun  had  set  and  her  cape  was 
large  and  Father  Thomas's  gate  was  still  unlocked  and 
no  one  met  her  on  the  stairs  nor  could  possibly  see 
when  she  tucked  something  under  the  mattress  of  her 
little  room  on  the  third  floor  of  the  retreat-house. 

Before  dawn,  next  morning,  she  awoke  to  a  guilty 
consciousness  of  an  unusual  sound  —  of  a  bell  tolling 
—  the  big  bell,  that  seldom  rang  except  for  the  be- 
ginning of  the  great  silence  each  evening  at  eight,  when 
its  voice  was  solemn  enough,  goodness  knew !  At  this 
gray  time  of  the  morning,  it  was  completely  awful. 
It  was  as  the  voice  of  a  godly  giant  on  whose  white 
garment  an  outrageous  spot  has  been  disclosed;  a 
voice  proclaiming  scandal  —  abomination;  a  protest- 
ing, accusing  voice,  hoarse  with  horror.  Yet  it  was 
only  the  passing-bell  for  Reverend  Mother,  whose 
death  so  filled  the  thoughts  of  her  nuns  that  the  most 
glaring  heresies  might  probably  have  strutted  the  clois- 
ter walks  in  full  daylight,  without  attracting  notice. 
But  none  the  less,  Zandrie  felt  under  her  mattress  to 
make  sure  that  IT  was  there.  "  Popery  Disclosed  " ! 
O  saints,  avert  the  lightning !  —  or  discovery  by  Sister 
Petronilla,  or  the  Pious  Ladies ! 

Sister  Petronilla,  being  guest  mistress,  sometimes 
penetrated  the  retreat-house  bed-rooms,  though  even 


BOBOLINKS    FLY    NORTH       83 

she  seldom  came  up  to  the  third  floor.  But  the  Pious 
Ladies  were  two  permanent  boarders  in  the  house,  and 
one  of  them  lived  in  the  very  room  next  Zandrie's. 
Luckily,  she  was  much  engaged  in  praying  a  short  cut 
through  purgatory,  spending  hours  and  hours  in  the 
chapel,  and  paying  little  heed  to  her  neighbor  —  es- 
pecially since  the  other  Pious  Lady  had  set  the  pace  at 
snubbing  Zandrie. 

The  snubbing  business,  by  the  way,  had  begun  after 
Zandrie's  making  friends  with  "  Mother  "  McClung, 
the  deaf  house-keeper  and  cook,  with  whom  she  was 
learning  to  talk  with  her  fingers.  At  first  the  Pious 
Ladies  had  vied  with  each  other  in  petting  her.  In 
fact,  the  poor  souls  made  their  retirement  from  the 
world  endurable  only  by  dint  of  such  rivalries  and 
daily  squabbles.  But  Zandrie  soon  fled  from  their 
jealous  favors,  to  her  silent  friend.  Whereupon,  see- 
ing her  so  taken  up  with  a  person  of  low  degree,  the 
Pious  Lady  who  lived  on  the  second  floor  tossed  her 
head  and  snubbed  her;  so  that  the  lady  of  the  third 
floor,  not  to  be  outdone  in  love  or  war,  had  to  snub 
her  a  little  more.  And  then  Zandrie,  being  an  illogi- 
cal person  —  as  any  one  can  see  with  half  an  eye, 
even  without  reading  as  far  as  this  —  what  does  she 
do  but  fly  into  a  rage  with  each  Pious  Lady  in  turn, 
and  run  in  silly  tears  to  Mrs.  McClung,  the  cause  of 
the  trouble.  And  yet  not  all  the  cause,  perhaps,  for 
the  Pious  Ladies  may  have  gotten  wind  of  the  fact 


84  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


that  Zandrie  was  not  a  boarder,  after  all,  but  only  a 
contemptible  object  of  charity.  How  could  they  know 
that  she  had  even  a  ten  dollar  gold-piece? 

To  tell  the  truth,  she  herself  had  forgotten  that 
wealth  till  the  fall  after  leaving  Our  Lady's,  when 
Sister  Angela  had  died  and  a  gold-piece  was  found 
in  her  desk,  in  an  envelope  labeled  "  Property  of  my 
sister  A.  O.  D.  Her  father's  last  birthday  gift  to  her." 
And  Reverend  Mother  had  given  it  back,  bidding 
A.  O.  D.  to  keep  it  carefully.  And  at  that  time,  Zan- 
drie had  kissed  it  in  contrition  for  having  forgotten, 
and  believed  she  would  never  spend  it.  But  about 
that,  she  was  destined  to  change  her  mind. 

Sister  Angela's  death  had  been  a  momentous  event 
in  the  Priory,  for  she  was  in  high  honor.  No  one  had 
known  of  her  malady  till  she  fainted  at  lauds,  one 
gray  dawn.  And  three  weeks  later,  the  passing-bell 
had  rung  as  it  was  ringing  for  Reverend  Mother  now. 
But  the  only  tears  that  Zandrie  had  shed  then,  had 
been  for  sorriness  that  she  could  not  be  more  sorry. 
For  how  could  she  grieve  much  for  the  going  of  one 
who  had  pressed  all  the  love  that  her  nature  yielded, 
into  a  propitiatory  offering  to  the  Invisible,  neither 
asking  nor  receiving  love  from  the  little  sister  whose 
soul  she  had  tried  to  save?  The  fact  that  Sister  An- 
gela's cell  was  empty,  made  life  neither  a  more  nor  a 
less  lonely  affair  for  Zandrie. 

And  in  spite  of  Mother  McClung,  it  was  appallingly 
lonely.  How  else?  For  the  only  persons  who  ever 


BOBOLINKS    FLY    NORTH       85 

spoke  to  her  were, —  first,  two  elderly  deaf  mutes  — 
and  McClung  himself  was  rheumatic  as  well  as  deaf, 
and  of  very  uncertain  temper;  secondly,  two  quarrel- 
some old  ladies,  who  ought  not  to  count  after  all, 
since,  after  the  snubbing  began,  they  made  a  point  of 
not  speaking,  so  that  Zandrie  preferred  to  eat  with 
her  silent  friends  in  the  kitchen  whenever  McClung 
was  in  good  humor.  When  he  was  not,  he  made 
strange  little  sounds  in  his  throat  that  were  worse 
than  silence.  As  for  the  guests  who  came  for  their 
yearly  retreat,  they  were  silent  perforce,  and  read 
their  Manuals  even  at  table.  And  then,  there  was 
Father  Thomas,  whom  she  eyed  with  profound  dis- 
trust —  for  no  other  reason  than  that  she  did  —  and 
never  spoke  to  when  she  could  help  it.  And  there  was 
also  his  acolyte,  living  with  him  in  the  chaplain's 
little  house;  but  he  was  studying  for  the  priest- 
hood so  hard  that  he  seemed  to  have  grown 
underground  and  Zandrie  called  him  Brother  Tur- 
nip. Few  words  could  she  have  exchanged  with 
him  if  she  had  wanted  —  or  even  if  he  had 
wanted !  And  finally,  there  were  the  busy  lay  sis- 
ters and  the  nuns,  whom  she  might  speak  to  only 
when  they  came  out  for  their  decorous  and  question- 
able "  recreation."  For,  since  the  first  school  vaca- 
tion, she  had  lived  in  the  retreat-house  and  not  been 
allowed  in  the  convent  itself.  So  she  had  had  little 
joy  of  Sister  Isidore.  And  the  genial  Father  Haggar- 
ty  had,  failed  her,  having  made  his  weekly  visits  of 


86  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


yore  only  because  he  had  been  the  director  of  the 
community  before  it  moved  to  its  new  home;  and 
Father  Thomas  was  director  now,  and  Father  Hag- 
garty  came  only  for  occasions  like  Sister  Angela's 
funeral.  As  for  the  friends  of  "  Our  Lady  *s,"  the 
censorship  of  a  convent  school  is  hardly  encouraging 
to  a  heart-to-heart  correspondence.  She  had  written 
to  Annabel  Bean,  but  got  no  answer.  So  it  appears 
that  life  really  must  have  been  a  lonely  affair.  And 
with  the  prospect  of  hell  at  the  end  of  it  all!  Poor 
Sister  Bobolink!  No  wonder  she  had  preferred  to 
be  thorough  in  heresy  —  to  be  killed  for  a  sheep  than 
a  lamb,  since  the  killing  was  certain. 

But  since  her  talk  with  the  Reverend  George  Dem- 
ing,  it  had  seemed  a  bit  less  certain.  That  was  one 
of  the  wonders  that  she  pondered  through  the  day 
of  Reverend  Mother's  death,  and  that  tumbled  the 
hours  of  the  long  office  into  a  few  delirious  minutes. 
But  although  Father  Haggarty  was  at  hand  and  she 
was  bursting  to  ask  questions  which  would  have  made 
his  eyes  open  —  as  wide,  at  least,  as  their  casing  of 
fat  allowed  —  she  kept  her  own  counsel,  for  so  her 
new  director  had  advised,  after  a  certain  brow-pucker- 
ing pause. 

For  three  weeks,  then,  she  helped  Mother  McClung 
about  the  house  and  hemmed  napkins  for  Sister  Rose 
of  the  linen  closet,  all  in  a  fever  of  guilty  excitement, 
which  yet  no  one  seemed  to  notice.  No;  no  one 
seemed  to  suspect  at  all  that  within  the  most  Catholic 


BOBOLINKS    FLY    NORTH        87 

Priory  of  the  exemplary  Scholastica  lay  hidden  —  we 
know  what.  Zandrie  was  saying  five  rosaries  a  day 
in  propitiation  of  the  outraged  saint.  She  was  even 
forgetting  to  write  stories  in  her  head  about  the 
radiant  person  called  Julian,  which  signifies  better 
than  anything  else,  her  distracted  state.  For  of  late, 
those  stories  had  made  the  most  real  reality  of  her 
life,  and  all  its  joy.  In  proportion  as  her  outer  world 
had  grown  barren  of  delight,  she  had  turned  to  the 
inner  world  of  her  own  making,  using  much  that  she 
had  found  in  the  former,  but  interweaving  it  more  and 
more  with  shreds  of  dreams,  till  at  last  she  herself 
could  not  tell  which  threads  were  which.  If  Mr.  Wil- 
ton Furness,  for  instance,  could  have  met  in  Zandrie's 
cloud  palace  that  person  she  called  Julian,  it  is  very 
doubtful  whether  he  would  have  recognized  his  own 
son.  But  who  would  read  the  absurdities  of  that 
palace  business,  even  if  any  one  had  the  meanness  to 
disclose  them?  Enough  that  they  were  as  absurdly 
delightful  as  most  of  our  dreams.  And  she  even  had 
the  excuse  that  one  of  hers  had  come  true  —  one  after- 
noon when  she  had  perched  on  a  wall  and  seen  Julian 
ride  past  in  the  sunlight. 

During  her  second  visit  to  the  Reverend  George,  he 
answered  so  many  of  those  questions  which  she  had 
almost  asked  Father  Haggarty,  so  differently  from  the 
way  that  the  Father  would  have  answered  —  if  he  was 
at  all  fit  to  be  a  nunnery  director  —  that  the  eternal 
fires  began  to  look  very  distant,  and  heresy,  more  di- 


88  ZANDRIE 


verting  than  heroic.  This  was  not  wholly  disappoint- 
ing, however,  since  future  heroisms  were  exchanged 
for  the  fine  excitement  of  nearer  dangers.  If  her  ex- 
cursions to  town  were  discovered,  for  instance,  the 
peach  tree  by  the  wall  might  be  cut  down,  and  Father 
Thomas's  gate  kept  locked  —  which  would  certainly 
be  exciting,  since,  having  tasted  the  wine  of  escape, 
she  intended  to  drink  it  henceforth  by  cupfuls, —  yes, 
and  in  spite  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Deming  himself.  It 
was  curious  —  the  inconsistency  of  that  gentleman 
who  could  batter  down  the  infallibility  of  the  pope 
and  of  Holy  Church  too;  who  called  the  lives  of  the 
Sisters  "  a  base  hiding  in  the  coils  of  a  shell  called 
religion,  from  God's  own  work,"  and  then  —  then, 
who  sent  a  body  back  to  a  convent,  bidding  her  not  to 
run  away  again!  He  had  meant  it  too,  looking  as 
eagerly  perplexed  but  as  determined  as  Mother  Gen- 
evieve,  the  new  Prioress.  "  And  meanwhile,"  he  had 
said,  "  I  will  pray  for  you."  "  I  'd  rather  come  and 
talk  with  you,"  she  said.  But  he  was  again  very 
firm  about  that.  But  all  that  work  to  be  done  in  the 
world  —  ought  she  not  to  be  about  it?  —  to  begin  at 
once  on  her  own  share?  Not  yet,  he  said;  not  until 
.  .  .  Until  when?  she  asked.  Well,  not  until  she 
was  grown  up.  But  she  was  seventeen  last  Septem- 
ber, she  argued,  and  it  was  March  already.  To  which 
he  merely  said  "  Be  patient."  "  I  've  been  as  patient 
already,"  she  pouted,  "  as  Saint  Stilytes.  ...  I 
always  hated  Saint  Stilytes !  " 


BOBOLINKS    FLY    NORTH       89 

He  escorted  her  to  Father  Thomas's  front  gate,  and 
throughout  their  walk  she  tried  to  ask  him  if  he  knew 
anything  about  Julian;  but  her  courage  failed.  Yet 
she  had  carried  a  work  called  "  Popery  Disclosed  " 
into  the  retreat-house,  and  read  it  too !  —  and  had 
dared  to  believe  what  it  said,  and  to  question  the  in- 
fallibility of  His  Holiness  and  the  whole  authority  of 
Holy  Church ;  had  dared  to  think  her  own  thoughts  at 
last  —  or  Mr.  Deming's  thoughts,  but  it  made  little 
difference  which,  since  they  were  equally  un-Catholic 
now.  She  had  dared  all  this,  and  yet  could  not 
screw  her  courage  up  to  the  speaking  of  a  name. 
Curious  enough !  "  I  '11  do  it  now,"  she  thought  when 
they  reached  the  gate ;  but  first  she  asked  "  I  can  still 
love  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  be  a  good  heretic,  can't  I  ?  " 

"  Protestant  ?  "  he  corrected,  " —  yes,  it  will  do  no 
harm  so  long  as  you  love  God  better." 

"  I  '11  try,"  she  sighed.  And  then  he  said  good-by 
and  was  gone,  and  in  the  fun  of  slipping  through 
Father  Thomas's  garden  and  finding  the  gate  in  the 
convent  wall  unlocked,  she  forgot  that  she  had  not 
asked  the  questions  about  Julian  after  all. 


"  The  sun  is  up  and  the  birdies  sing 
'  Tee-cheep !  O  fie  on  a  lazy  thing ! ' " 

The  foolish  little  song  of  her  father's  hopped  into 
her  head  as  she  sat  on  the  wall  where  she  had  perched 


90  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


when  Julian  passed.  The  peach  tree  hid  her  from  the 
convent  windows  because  it  was  full  of  blossoms,  over 
which  the  birds  had  lost  their  wits  and  would  certainly 
soon  be  hoarse.  But  the  sun  was  not  yet  so  high 
that  it  more  than  spread  a  warmth  through  one's 
veins,  and  a  tingling  of  desire  for  wings  to  carry  one 
nearer  to  itself,  or  for  —  what  ?  Who  could  tell  what  ? 

If  he  should  pass  again!  She  shut  her  eyes,  to  pre- 
tend that  she  heard  a  beat  of  hoofs.  If  he  would  pass 
just  once  more,  that  would  be  fun  enough;  for  he 
would  know  her  this  time,  although  she  was  so  grown 
up,  and  he  would  laugh  a  laugh  that  was  good  to 
hear,  and  she  would  drop  to  the  ground  and  scramble 
up  on  his  horse  —  a  great  sorrel,  she  remembered  — • 
and  they  would  gallop  together  into  the  heart  of  the 
world,  to  find  the  work  that  Mr.  Deming  said  waited 
each  one  of  us.  Why,  Julian  himself  had  spoken  of 
some  such  work,  in  that  talk  with  Sister  Angela !  He 
would  help  her  in  it,  perhaps  —  would  help  her  in  all 
things  —  and  she  would  wear  a  pink  dress,  and  life 
would  no  longer  be  a  bore,  or  lonely.  "  Oh,"  she 
whispered  with  her  eyes  shut,  "  what  fun !  " 

But  at  last,  because  she  could  not  make  her  ears 
hear  the  beat  of  hoofs,  and  because  life  of  late  had 
been  such  a  really  dreadful  bore,  she  began  to  cry  a 
little;  and  the  tears  felt  so  real  that  she  called  herself 
a  silly  child  with  a  head  full  of  dreams. 

Julian  would  never  ride  past  again  —  she  knew  it 
now  —  and  because  he  would  never  ride  anywhere 


BOBOLINKS    FLY    NORTH        91 

again.  But  it  was  very  hard  to  realize,  because  the 
Radiant  Person  of  the  cloud  palace  was  always  so 
active.  Even  when  she  was  merely  remembering,  she 
saw  no  sullen  smoulder  in  the  eyes  of  the  face  on 
Father  Haggarty's  pillow ;  and  the  face  never  lay 
there  long.  No;  it  was  a  task  to  make  oneself  believe 
—  to  know  —  that  the  real  Julian  somewhere  there 
in  the  north  of  Massachusetts,  must  be  sitting  or  lying 
quite  still  all  day.  Poor  boy !  Poor  prisoner ! 

And  here  in  her  meditation  something  momentous 
happened,  though  nothing  more  prodigious  than  the 
thought  that  Julian  perhaps  was  as  lonely  as  herself. 
But  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  before,  and  it  shot  in 
with  certain  others  tumbling  after,  which,  twenty  min- 
utes later,  set  her  in  motion  towards  the  town. 

She  had  not  been  there  since  her  second  talk  with 
Mr.  Deming,  because  the  risk  of  discovery  was  not 
to  be  taken  lightly,  and  she  had  not  been  able  to  think 
up  a  really  good  excuse.  But  at  last  a  fine,  stout  one 
had  presented  itself  and  she  pounced  upon  it,  breath- 
less with  glee,  prancing  after  wherever  it  might  lead. 

It  took  her  straight  to  the  railroad  station,  to  ask 
the  price  of  a  ticket  to  a  town  in  the  north  of  Mas- 
sachusetts. Supposing  it  were  no  more  than  ten  dol- 
lars .  .  .  She  hugged  patience  to  herself  while 
the  man  at  the  window  consulted  a  pamphlet,  scribbled 
in  pencil  on  the  margin  of  a  time  table,  then  studied  a 
book,  and  then  — "  Thirteen :  thirty-five,"  he  said,  so 
dispassionately  that  she  could  n't  believe  he  was  saying 


92  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


it  to  her.  But  he  repeated  it,  looking  at  her  over  his 
spectacles. 

"  Could  n't  I  possibly  get  one  for  ten  ?  " 

He  convinced  her  patiently  that  she  could  not. 

By  the  time  that  she  reached  Father  Thomas's  gar- 
den, the  fun  was  almost  spent,  and  none  at  all  was  left 
after  Brother  Turnip,  come  from  serving  mass,  met 
her  at  the  gate  in  the  wall.  Though  he  blinked  with 
astonishment,  he  said  never  a  word.  And  no  one  said 
a  word.  But  the  chaplain's  gate  was  kept  locked  for 
the  next  four  days. 

Whether  it  was  so  faithfully  locked  after  that,  is  of 
no  concern  to  any  one  more  interested  in  Zandrie  than 
in  Brother  Turnip.  For  in  spite  of  the  impassive  ticket 
man,  her  spirits  rose  with  the  sun,  next  morning; 
and  for  four  days  her  wits  wrought  busily.  On  the 
fourth  morning,  when  old  McClung  went  to  delve  in 
the  vegetable  garden,  she  coaxed  his  wife  to  lend  her 
three  dollars  and  thirty-five  cents.  "  I  can't  tell  you 
what  for  now,"  she  spelled  on  her  fingers,  "  but  I  can 
pay  it  back  soon,  surely."  And  as  the  lay  sisters  often 
drove  to  town  to  do  errands,  Mrs.  McClung  doubtless 
assumed  that  Zandrie  wanted  them  to  buy  something 
for  herself  —  assumed  it,  at  least,  until  she  found  a 
certain  bit  of  paper  in  one  of  her  sauce-pans  and  read 
thereon :  "  Dearest  of  dears,  you  are  the  only  reason 
why  I  am  not  completely  happy  at  going.  You  have 
been  such  an  angel.  I  want  awfully  to  tell  you  where 
I  am  going,  and  why ;  but  as  Mother  Genevieve  will  ask 


BOBOLINKS    FLY    NORTH        93 

you,  I  don't  want  to  make  it  hard  for  you.  But  you 
can  tell  every  one  that  my  reason  for  going  was  most 
excellent."  O  excellent  indeed !  —  being  sufficient 
even  for  the  spending  of  her  father's  last  gift.  • 

Oh,  the  life  out  there  in  the  world  was  a  joyous 
business !  Her  eyes,  straining  to  see  through  the  con- 
vent wall,  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  hurry  of  colors,  of 
a  kaleidoscopic  throng  to  which  she  stretched  her  arms 
in  delight  and  hope,  tired  of  white  and  gray  and  black 
and  of  measured  movements.  Her  ears  ached  with 
weariness  of  the  known.  For,  the  chanting  of  wom- 
en's voices  at  dawn,  and  the  great  silence  bell;  the 
march  of  black-veiled  figures,  two  by  two,  carrying 
banners  and  burning  tapers  to  the  honor  of  some  soft- 
named  saint;  matins  and  lauds  and  prime  and  none 
for  names  of  the  time  of  day,  and  dialogues  of  song 
in  the  place  of  speech  —  these  were  the  common- 
places, the  prose  of  life;  and  the  road  to  town  was  the 
way  to  its  poetry.  And  so  on  the  evening  of  the  first 
of  May,  with  a  little  bundle  of  clothes  again  under 
her  arm  and  a  dance  of  sun-lit  mists  in  her  head,  she 
mounted  her  peach  tree  by  the  wall  and  stepped  out 
into  the  world  to  find  the  radiant  person  made  of 
dream-woven  memories,  called  Julian. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CONTAINING   A    MOMENT   OF   SUSPENSE 

She  really  could  not  ride  in  his  carriage,  she  told 
the  cabman,  unless  it  happened  to  cost  only  fifteen 
cents,  which  was  all  the  money  she  had  left,  and  fif- 
teen times  as  much  as  she  might  have  had  but  for 
the  lady  from  Washington  and  Mr.  Fink. 

Though  she  did  not  explain  who  these  benefactors 
were,  it  is  evident  that  she  had  more  friends  now  than 
when  she  had  left  the  convent. 

"  It  don't  happen  to  cost  only  fifteen  cents,"  the 
cabman  said;  whereupon  one  of  his  fellows  pushed 
him  off  the  curbstone  and  offered  to  make  a  deal  with 
her. 

"  You  're  a  rum  one,"  said  the  first. 

"  Sure !  "  and  the  second  opened  the  door  of  his 
hack.  "  Me  for  beauty  in  distress." 

But  his  grin  disconcerted  her.  In  fact,  she  was  a 
little  frightened  for  the  first  time  in  her  journey  — 
and  it  was  now  almost  the  journey's  end.  "  I  'd  rather 
walk,"  she  said,  " — only  is  it  very  far  to  102  Elm 
street?"  That  was  the  address  at  the  head  of  the 
letters  from  Julian's  aunt. 

94 


A    MOMENT    OF    SUSPENSE      95 

"  Stranger  here?  "  the  second  cabman  asked.  And 
at  that,  she  turned  suddenly  to  a  red-nosed  fellow 
lounging  against  the  station  wall,  though  how  she 
knew  that  for  all  his  wicked  nose  he  would  be  her 
protector,  is  a  mystery. 

"  You  help  me!  "  she  said.  And  he  not  only  swore 
in  her  defense,  but  took  her  in  his  cab  without  more 
parley.  When  they  reached  102  Elm  street,  however, 
and  he  had  helped  her  to  dismount,  "  Tell  you  what," 
he  said,  rubbing  his  nose  to  a  terrifying  hue,  "  I  think 
you  meant  to  be  square  all  right  about  this  deal.  I 
would  n't  of  did  this,  you  know,  if  I  had  n't  thought 
that." 

But  she  was  eyeing  the  house  in  a  fever  of  excite- 
ment. If  Julian  should  happen  to  be  looking  out  of  a 
front  window!  .  .  .  Would  he  know  her?  She 
had  grown  a  good  deal  in  seven  years,  and  her  hair 
was  braided  and  turned  up;  but  she  wore  a  black 
dress  with  white  collar  and  bow,  very  much  like  the 
one  in  which  he  had  mistaken  her  for  the  portrait  of  a 
bobolink.  Perhaps  he  would  still  call  her  Sister  Bob- 
olink; and  she  would  certainly  not  stamp  with 
rage.  .  .  . 

The  hackman  was  touching  her  arm.  "  Look  a-here. 
I  said  you  was  going  to  be  square  about  this,  was  n't 
you?" 

She  smiled  at  him  dreamily.     "  O  yes  indeed !  " 

"  That 's  how  I  thought ;  so  I  thought  I  'd  risk  it, 
don't  you  see.  You  see  what  you  owes  me  is  fifty 


96  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


cents,  only  I  'm  willing  to  take  fifteen  now  and  let  the 
rest  wait  over  till  you  can  pay  up." 

"  Yes  indeed,  I  can  surely  pay  you  later."  Julian 
was  not  a  window  and  perhaps  it  was  as  well  —  it 
would  surprise  him  so  deliciously  when  she  just  opened 
the  door  of  his  room  and  walked  in  ... 

"  Well,  but  how  and  when?  "  the  tiresome  hackman 
was  persisting. 

"  O  please !  " —  and  she  took  a  step  towards  the 
house.  "  I  've  borrowed  a  lot  already,  but  — " 

"  Comin'  here  as  hired  help  ?  " 

"No;  just  to  visit." 

He  looked  at  the  house  and  then  at  her,  and  ap- 
parently concluded  that  she  was  telling  the  truth.  "  To 
stay  a  while  ?  " 

The  question  had  not  occurred  to  herself,  and  she 
laughed  happily.  "If  they'll  have  me;  and  I  think 
they  will.  I  may  live  here  the  rest  of  my  life !  " 

Then  he  wrote  her  name  in  a  dirty  little  book,  and 
at  last  she  was  rid  of  him.  In  fact,  he  was  out  of 
sight  before  the  maid  opened  the  door  of  102  Elm 
street.  She  was  a  crisp  little  maid  in  a  ruffled  apron 
and  cap.  "  Mr.  Furness  ? "  she  repeated  cheerily, 
" — Mr.  Furness ?  .  .  .  Positively  no  such  per- 
son ! " —  and  she  was  for  shutting  the  door,  but 
Zandrie  caught  at  the  knob. 

"  He  lives  here  with  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Emily  Marshall 
Wyndam  —  and  the  twins." 


A   MOMENT    OF    SUSPENSE      97 

"  Positively  no  such  persons.  You  could  ask  next 
door,  maybe." 

Zandrie  stared  at  the  closed  door  a  full  minute  be- 
fore turning  away.  The  house  on  the  right  was  for 
rent,  but  she  rang  at  the  one  on  the  left,  and  another 
spruce  maid  said  that  she  had  heard  many  names  in 
her  life,  but  never  a  Furness  or  Wyndam.  But  she 
would  inquire  of  the  missis.  And  when  she  came 
back  with  the  news  that  her  mistress  had  lived  here 
seven  months  and  knew  of  no  Mrs.  Wyndam  or  Mr. 
Furness,  Zandrie  clasped  her  hands  against  her  throat. 

It  is  an  awkward  situation,  without  doubt,  when 
one  has  stepped  out  of  a  convent  to  travel  several  hun- 
dred miles  on  thirteen  dollars  and  thirty-five  cents  and 
a  trusting  hackman  has  just  accepted  one's  last  penny ; 
when  it  is  almost  evening  and  one  finds  oneself  adrift 
in  a  strange  city,  rather  tired  after  a  sleepless  night, 
friendless  and  without  so  much  as  a  suspicion  that  a 
device  called  a  directory  exists.  The  prospect  of  ring- 
ing several  thousand  door-bells  was  not  cheering,  yet 
seemed  the  only  hope  till  the  idea  darted  in,  that  pos- 
sibly the  hackman  had  made  a  mistake  about  the 
street  —  that  perhaps  this  was  not  Elm  street  after  all. 
She  ran  two  blocks  before  she  found  a  lamp-post  with 
a  sign. 

And  it  was  not  till  after  she  had  been  leaning 
against  this  lamp-post  for  five  whole  minutes  and,  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  crying  softly  into  her  handker- 


98  Z  A  N  D  R I  E 


chief,  that  help  came.  "  Wot 's  up?  "  it  asked,  and  she 
was  a  little  disconcerted  at  first  to  make  out  through 
her  tears  that  it  was  a  policeman;  but  she  told  him 
what  was  "  up,"  bravely  enough  until  she  reached  the 
proposition  of  the  door-bells.  "  It  seems  as  if  I 
could  n't  ring  every  bell  in  town,"  she  sobbed  then, 
"  and  I  shan't  have  time  to  before  night  anyway.  And 
anyhow  perhaps  —  perhaps  he  's  dead !  "  But  the 
policeman's  want  of  emotion  at  this  suggestion  was 
soothing  in  itself.  "  Guess  he  ain't  moved  as  far  as 
that,"  he  said.  "  Ain't  looked  him  up  in  the  d'rect'ry 
yet,  have  ye  ?  "  And  then  when  he  had  grasped  the 
fact  that  she  had  not,  and  the  reason  why,  "  You  foller 
me !  "  he  commanded.  And  she  followed,  drying  her 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    MAN   IN   THE   CHAIR 

Center  street  swarmed  with  men  and  girls,  most  of 
them  carrying  pails  or  leather  colored  boxes,  at  the 
moment  when  Zandrie  took  leave  of  her  policeman, 
near  the  steps  of  number  55.  It  was  a  wooden  house, 
nominally  white,  jammed  in  between  a  brick  block  of 
wholesale  stores  on  the  left,  and  a  big  building  hum- 
ming with  machinery,  on  the  right.  In  fact,  it  was 
not  a  house  where,  without  the  insistency  of  a  direc- 
tory and  a  policeman  too,  one  would  have  looked  for 
the  former  tenant  of  a  cloud  palace. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  woman  in  black,  with 
the  dole  fullest  fact  that  she  had  ever  set  eyes  on. 
Dear  saints !  could  it  be  his  aunt  ?  She  wore  no  apron 
and  did  not  look  like  a  servant  exactly.  In  her  dis- 
may, Zandrie  forgot  to  speak. 

"Don't  you  want  anything  at  all?"  the  woman 
asked  in  a  voice  that  matched  her  face. 

"  I  've  come  to  see  —  your  nephew." 

"  I  have  n't  no  nephews,"  was  the  dispassionate  re- 
ply ;  whereupon  Zandrie  drew  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  mean  Mr.  Julian  Furness.     Is  he  here  ?  " 

99 


ioo  ZANDRIE 


"  I  guess  likely.  He  ain't  much  given  over  to  gad- 
ding." This  with  a  mirthless  smile,  "  I  '11  speak  to 
him." 

"  No  indeed !     I  want  to  surprise  him !  " 

The  woman  merely  raised  her  eyebrows;  then  she 
turned  into  the  house. 

His  house !  Zandrie's  heart  beat  so  that  she  hardly 
saw  where  she  stepped,  dimly  aware  of  feeling  hep 
way  up  a  narrow  staircase  through  a  darkness  flavored 
with  cabbage.  His  house!  And  she  was  to  see  him 
within  the  minute. 

She  clasped  her  hands,  waiting  for  the  sound  of 
his  voice. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  The  tones  were  impatient,  but  she 
knew  them. 

"  It 's  a  girl,"  said  the  woman,  whom  Zandrie  sud- 
denly detested,  and  pushed  aside,  to  open  the  door  her- 
self. 

It  was  the  door  into  the  hall  of  her  dream  palace, 
where  a  king  called  Julian  the  Radiant  was  awaiting 
her.  No  wonder  the  child  forgot  her  manners. 

Poor  Zandrie!  The  man  there  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  leaning  back  in  a  wheel  chair  and  smok- 
ing a  pipe,  was  such  a  plainly  human  being,  clad  in  a 
citizen's  suit  of  sombre  gray,  with  a  starched  collar. 
He  was  even  reading  a  newspaper  —  an  institution 
that  was  eschewed  in  the  palace  as  commonplace,  not 
to  say  vulgar.  Starched  collars  had  given  way  to 
Byronic  neck-gear;  and  as  for  any  sort  of  smoking  —  1 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    CHAIR      101 

But  it  was  no  laughing  matter,  and  Zandrie,  clinging 
to  the  door  knob,  stared  at  him  as  at  a  fearful 
stranger.  It  was  as  though  a  hand  at  her  heart  had 
turned  a  lever  reversing  every  current  of  blood  in 
her  body.  She  seemed  born  with  full  consciousness 
into  a  new  world. 

Had  she  ever  known  him  —  that  man  in  the  chair  ? 
He  was  so  old!  And  Julian  and  she  had  been  com- 
rades. 

His  eyes  meanwhile  greeted  hers  around  the  edge 
of  his  paper  with  amazed  interrogation.  Their  dis- 
concerting blue  seemed  the  only  positive  color  in  his 
face,  but  this  may  have  been  because  of  the  veil  of 
smoke.  Presently,  as  she  continued  to  stand  at  the 
door  wordless,  he  took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 
"  You  've  evidently  made  a  mistake,"  he  said ;  but 
however  unfriendly  the  tone,  it  was  a  voice  she  had 
known.  Yet,  still  too  dismayed  for  speech,  she  looked 
away,  and  her  glance  took  a  confused  inventory  of  his 
surroundings:  of  shelves  of  books  and  music,  and, 
over  one  bookcase,  a  photograph  of  Rosa  Bonheur's 
"  Horse  Fair " ;  of  a  table  piled  with  books ;  of  a 
green  bronze  lamp  in  their  midst;  of  odd,  long  sheets 
of  paper  sprawling  on  a  desk  behind  him;  of  a  silky, 
striped  blanket  over  his  knees;  a  piano  in  the  corner; 
dust  on  the  floor.  Then  she  looked  again  at  the  man 
himself.  His  expression  was  now  a  compound  of  an- 
noyance and  amusement.  But  something  in  his  eyes 
not  seen  at  first,  startled  her  attention, —  something 


102  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


that,  with  the  lines  about  them  and  about  his  mouth, 
shot  a  pang  of  pity  through  her,  setting  movement  free. 

Meanwhile,  "If  you  're  sure  you  have  n't  made  a 
mistake,"  he  was  saying, —  and  his  manner  was  not 
reassuring  — "  may  I  ask  .  .  .  ?  " 

But  she  walked  towards  him  without  answer.  It 
seemed  the  part  of  simple  friendliness  to  kiss  him  as 
she  used  to;  but  she  could  not,  because  there  was 
still  no  recognition  in  his  eyes. 

And  the  intrusion  of  unknown  ladies  was  evidently 
not  to  the  taste  of  his  present  mood.  As  she  stood 
beside  him  wordless,  a  flush  of  new  annoyance  spread 
over  his  face.  "Well?"  he  demanded  with  candid 
ferocity. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  very  softly,  "  don't  you  know, 
then?  I  'm  Zandrie  of  the  Convent." 

"  Zandrie  of  the  .  .  ."  She  hugged  herself, 
for  the  fun  was  beginning  at  last!  He  dropped  his 
newspaper  to  the  floor,  and  held  out  his  hand.  "  Sis- 
ter Bobolink!  ...  I  don't  believe  it!  " 

She  laughed  for  delight.  "  Then  you  had  n't 
forgotten ! " 

"  I  'd  be  right  ungrateful  if  I  had." 

"  And  —  and  you  're  really  a  little  glad  to  see 
me?" 

"  More  than  that,"  he  answered  so  graciously  that 
she  said  then  she  would  tell  him  why  she  had  come. 
Yet  there  she  faltered  again  because  of  that  sense 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    CHAIR       103 

of  his  being  a  stranger.  It  seemed  not  so  easy  to  say 
it  after  all  —  the  simple  reason.  Stranger  or  not, 
though,  he  had  to  sit  here  all  day  long  —  imprison- 
ment verily  worse  than  hers  had  been !  So  pity  again 
got  the  upper  hand  and  sent  her  on.  "  I  Ve  come," 
she  said,  "  because  perhaps  you  're  lonely,  when  your 
aunt 's  away  sometimes,  you  know  —  and  —  do  you 
remember  how  I  opened  your  letters  for  you  ?  —  and 
I  thought  perhaps  I  could  do  little  things  for  you  still. 
And  besides,  I  always  wanted  to  come  so  —  and  I  '11 
stay  as  long  as  you  like.  There !  I  thought  I  'd 
surprise  you !  " 

She  had  surely  succeeded  in  that ! 

"  But  of  course,"  she  faltered,  "  if  you  don't  want 
me  —  if  it 's  not  convenient  — " 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  I  appreciate  —  it 's  very  kind  — 
but  I  don't  quite  understand,  you  see.  Where  have 
you  come  from,  and  how  — " 

"  From  the  convent."  But  this  plain  statement 
seemed  to  throw  little  light  into  the  abyss  of  his  be- 
wilderment, so,  "  Surely  you  never  expected  me  to 
stay!  O  saints!  —  I  don't  pin  much  faith  to  them, 
you  know  —  Me  a  nun ! " 

"  You  don't  mean  — " 

"  Indeed  I  do !  It 's  very  simple,  too.  It  was 
yourself  sowed  the  seeds  of  iniquity  —  don't  you  re- 
member? in  your  talk  with  Sister  Angela?  So  last 
night  I  packed  up  my  things  and  away  I  —  But 


104  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


mercy !  where  are  my  things ! "  she  added  in  a  burst 
of  new  dismay  at  the  realization  that  she  had  left  her 
bundle,  she  knew  not  where. 

"You  ran  away?"  he  repeated,  "  from  the  Priory 
—  last  night?" 

"  And  spent  part  of  the  night  in  a  railroad  station. 
Ah  such  fun!  I  felt  like  a  wild  animal  back  in  its 
home!" 

But  the  man  in  the  chair  evidently  lacked  imagi- 
nation. "  Why  the  deuce  at  home  —  in  a  railroad 
station?" 

"  What  better  place?  "  she  asked  gleefully.  "  I  'm 
glad  enough  the  train  I  started  on  stopped  so  soon, 
so  I  had  to  wait  there.  And  a  very  homely  but  kind 
young  man  offered  to  show  me  the  way  to  a  hotel, 
but  I  had  n't  any  money  and  the  station  was  so 
gloriously  noisy,  I  couldn't  leave  it  anyhow.  I  love 
those  busy  engines !  " 

"  The  saints  took  charge  in  spite  of  you,  I  see,"  said 
Mr.  Strange  Man.  "What  next?" 

"  Then  I  came  to  you." 

"  You  came  on  purpose  to  — " 

"  To  see  you.  You  're  almost  the  only  person  I 
like  in  the  world."  For  her,  of  course,  the  world 
meant  everything  outside  of  the  convent  walls.  But 
his  expression  stirred  uneasiness,  and  "  I  'm  afraid 
you  are  n't  very  glad,"  she  added. 

"  Indeed  I  'm  delighted.  How  did  you  find  the 
way?" 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    CHAIR        105 

But  no!  His  tone  hurt  her  so  that  she  turned 
away  almost  in  silly  tears,  and  refused  to  answer.  In 
the  end,  however,  he  persuaded  her  to  tell  him  some 
of  the  details  of  her  adventure. 

"  I  did  n't  know  till  I  tried,"  she  said,  "  that  trav- 
eling takes  more  money  than  one  's  fare,  so  I  'd  have 
starved,  you  see,  but  for  the  lady  from  Washington 
who  gave  me  some  sandwiches;  and  then  she  piloted 
me  across  New  York,  and  would  n't  let  me  borrow 
the  car  fare,  even.  And  I  never  told  her  I  was  run- 
ning away  from  a  convent  either,  which  seems  dread- 
ful of  me;  but  I  just  didn't  think  I'd  better.  But 
I  told  Mr.  Fink.  He  seemed  different,  somehow, 
though  I  did  n't  like  him  at  all  at  first ;  but  afterwards 
he  was  lovely  and  tried  to  make  me  take  five  dollars, 
but  I  would  n't  take  more  than  one,  which  I  'm  to  send 
him  by  mail.  He  got  off  at  New  Haven  to  go  to  col- 
lege. It 's  disgraceful,  I  suppose,  to  owe  as  much 
money  as  I  do." 

"  Frightful,"  said  Julian.  "  Your  guardian  will 
give  you  a  little  talk." 

"  But  that 's  why  I  had  to  borrow !  —  because  Un- 
cle Jason  's  dead,  poor  soul,  and  did  n't  leave  me  any 
allowance." 

"Oh!" 

"  And  Sister  Angela  's  dead  too." 

Then  who  was  her  guardian  now?  he  asked;  and 
when  she  answered  gravely  that,  praise  Heaven,  she 
had  no  such  thing  any  more, —  then  he  began  to  exam- 


io6  ZANDRIE 


ine  the  pipe  in  his  hands  with  extraordinary  earnest- 
ness. "  You  '11  have  to  go  back  to-morrow,  of 
course."  he  said  at  last. 

She  could  not  credit  her  ears.  "  Julian !  Why, 
Julian !  You  don't  mean  it !  " 

At  his  name,  he  looked  up  quickly,  and  the  blue  of 
his  eyes  was  as  unchanged  as  his  voice.  "  I  do  mean 
it,"  he  said  in  a  tone  that  savored  of  authority. 
"  You  '11  have  to  go  back." 

Could  this  be  Julian?  Seriously,  could  it?  In 
spite  of  the  same  eyes,  same  voice,  how  incredibly  he 
himself  was  changed!  Were  all  men  so  untrust- 
worthy? Was  it  true  after  all,  as  she  had  once  be- 
lieved, that  he  had  not  really  wanted  her  ever?  Was 
it  possible,  actually,  that  he  neither  needed  nor  wanted 
her  now?  The  grievous  doubt  was  knocking  for  ad- 
mittance, when  there  broke  in  past  it  a  tingling  sense 
of  freedom  that  pulled  her  to  her  feet.  He  should 
not  send  her  back  to  the  convent,  at  least!  Never 
that! 

"  Come  back ! "  the  man  in  the  chair  commanded. 

She  halted  at  the  door. 

"  Come  back !     Don't  be  childish !  " 

That  ended  her  hesitation,  of  course,  and  she  shut 
the  door  behind  her  and  stumbled,  blinded  by  tears, 
along  the  hall. 

So  this  was  the  end  of  the  quest!  This  was  the 
real  Julian  —  unsympathetic,  hostile,  and  a  tyrant. 
Stay  with  him?  Go  back  to  him?  She  would  as 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    CHAIR      107 

soon  go  back  to  the  convent.  But  at  the  end  of  the 
hall  she  wheeled  about  and  "  Oh,  I  am  a  child ! "  she 
sobbed.  "  Where  shall  I  go?  " 

Where  indeed?  At  this  moment,  railroad  stations 
held  little  allurement.  She  had  not  known  till  now 
how  tired  she  was,  how  sick  with  weariness,  every 
inch  of  her.  The  past  twenty-four  hours  were  be- 
come a  nightmare;  of  the  future  her  brain  refused 
to  take  account.  As  she  stood  there,  leaning  against 
the  casing  of  an  open  door,  and  trembling  from  the 
shock  of  the  blow  that  had  shattered  her  dream,  her 
name  called  authoritatively  reached  her  ears.  But  he 
could  not  get  at  her,  poor  soul  —  that  is,  abominable 
tyrant !  —  so  she  might  still  stand  there  a  minute  and 
try  to  think. 

The  room  at  the  door  of  which  she  had  halted, 
might  or  might  not  be  inhabited,  for  all  that  one 
could  make  of  it  at  first  glance;  at  least  there  was 
no  one  in  there  now ;  it  was  a  haven,  therefore,  where 
one  could  rest  a  minute  and  collect  one's  wits.  So 
she  shut  herself  in,  and  promptly  began  to  cry  more 
bitterly  than  ever  before  —  which,  as  we  all  know,  is 
saying  much. 

There  were  confused  sounds  in  the  hall  outside : 
foot-steps,  the  voice  of  the  woman  who  had  let  her 
in,  and  Julian's.  What !  was  he  instituting  a  search 
for  her  already?  She  jumped  up  and  darted  under 
the  bed;  and  it  was  not  till  after  the  sounds  had 
wholly  subsided  that  she  dared  crawl  out.  She  must 


io8  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


slip  out  of  the  house  itself  presently,  of  course,  but 
perhaps  she  could  afford  a  few  seconds  more  of  rest, 
first.  Perhaps  this  was  the  woman's  room,  and  she 
would  not  mind  if  an  aching  little  body  laid  herself 
on  the  bed  for  a  very  few  minutes. 

Oh,  what  was  it!  She  woke  with  a  start,  to  see 
against  a  glimmer  of  light  the  silhouette  of  some 
creature,  mustachioed,  gigantic,  at  whom  she  could 
only  stare  stupid  with  wonder,  till  the  present  was 
coupled  to  the  past  and  she  knew  that  this  was  a  man 
—  perhaps  a  policeman !  —  lighting  the  gas,  instigated 
by  Julian  to  capture  her  and  drag  her  back  to  the  con- 
vent. A  second  more,  and  he  would  have  her.  Lit- 
tle fool,  not  to  have  left  the  house! 

After  lighting  the  gas,  however,  he  did  not  at  once 
turn  round.  He  was  in  no  hurry,  at  least.  In  fact, 
he  began  to  read  a  newspaper  there  where  he  stood, 
without  so  much  as  a  glance  about  the  room.  He 
read  so  long  and  showed  so  little  eagerness  of  the 
chase,  that  the  situation  was  becoming  awkward  at 
last.  He  was  perhaps  the  lawful  occupant  of  the 
room!  She  sat  up. 

"  Hully  Gee !  "  The  man  dropped  his  paper  and 
stared  with  bulging  eyes. 

"So  you  weren't  after  me?"  she  ventured;  to 
which  another  "  Hully  Gee ! "  was  the  gasping  and 
only  response. 

"  If  you  were  n't,  you  need  n't  be  frightened,"  she 
said,  getting  off  the  bed.  "  I  'm  so  glad  you  were  n't," 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    CHAIR       109 

she  added  by  way  of  precaution,  "  for  I  'm  afraid  I  'd 
have  made  you  so  uncomfortable." 

"  I  guess  you  must  be  the  girl  Mr.  Furness  was  so 
fierce  to  find,  aint  you?"  In  spite  of  this  alarming 
question,  he  seemed  a  kindly  sort  of  creature. 

"  Why  did  he  want  to  find  me  ?  "  Her  hand  was 
approaching  the  door  knob. 

"  I  don't  jest  know  that  myself,  do  you?  He  says 
you  come  and  gone  again  and  he  's  got  to  have  you 
back.  Seemed  kind  of  curious,  didn't  it?  but  I  ain't 
much  given  over  to  bein'  inquisitive  when  he  's  in  that 
quiet  sort  of  temper ;  it 's  kind  of  futile.  So  I  jest 
done  what  he  says  —  squinted  round  a  corner  or  two, 
mistrustin'  it  was  a  wild  goose  hunt.  Detective  busi- 
ness ought  to  begin  at  home,  had  n't  it !  "  and  he  emit- 
ted a  bellow  of  mirth. 

She  could  but  laugh  with  him.  "  But  hush !  "  and 
she  lowered  her  own  voice.  "  We  must  take  care !  — 
especially  if  he  's  in  a  temper." 

"  Oh,  he  won't  hurt  you,"  the  kindly  soul  reassured 
her.  "  He  aint  much  given  to  violence,  these  days. 
Leastways,  it 's  some  time  since  he  's  hove  projectiles 
at  me." 

Even  the  revelation  of  a  habit  of  heaving  projectiles 
could  not  disturb  her  now,  being  what  one  would 
expect  of  a  person  who  ordered  one  back  to  a  con- 
vent. "  You  evidently  know  him,"  she  said  sadly. 
"  Is  he  always  disagreeable  ?  " 


no  ZANDRIE 


"  Him  ?  Mr.  Furness  ?  Guess  you  and  him  aint 
very  well  acquainted,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Not  any  more.     Are  you  sure  that  you  are  ?  " 

"  I  'd  ought  to  be ;  I  've  hauled  him  these  six 
years." 

For  some  reason,  the  Knight  on  horseback  flashed 
into  her  memory,  a  picture  by  which  this  word 
"  hauled  "  set  up  another  in  ignominious  contrast.  The 
joyous  Knight  and  the  man  in  the  chair  were  irrecon- 
cilable. She  pondered.  "  At  least  he  has  n't  pain 
any  more  ?  " 

"  Pain?  Well,  't  aint  what  it  used  to  be,  that  first 
year  or  so,  is  it  ?  'T  aint  near  so  rampageous,  but  — " 

"But  what?" 

"  Well,  he  don't  say  much  on  the  subject,  but  he 
kind  of  indicates  the  sofy  now  and  then,  and  I  know 
what 's  up." 

"  Merciful  saints !  "  and  she  passed  her  hand  across 
her  eyes,  "  I  thought  he  was  only  a  prisoner  like  me/' 

"  Had  n't  you  best  go  in  there  ?  "  her  new  friend 
suggested.  "  He  was  fierce  to  get  you." 

"  Yes,  and  I  know  why ;  and  I  'm  not  going  back 
—  I  think.  Where  's  his  aunt  ?  " 

"  Passed  away  these  two  years  or  more." 

"And  he's  here  all  alone  then!  Tied  down  to 
pain,  alone ! " 

"  Jule  's  used  to  it  more  or  less,  I  guess.  Anyhow, 
he  's  got  sand  enough  for  two,  as  I  make  the  cal'lation ; 
keeps  busy  one  way  and  another  —  works,  you  know, 


THE   MAN    IN    THE    CHAIR      in 

readin'  proof  for  the  concern  next  door;  and  what 
gets  my  ticket  is  that  he  don't  have  to  work  for  a 
living  neither.  Gives  his  wages  to  a  hospital  concern 
or  something." 

"Works!  Yes,  of  course  he'd  do  that.  Tell  me 
more ! " 

But  at  that  he  rubbed  his  chin  in  horrible  dismay. 
"  Had  n't  you  best  go  — " 

"  No !  "  she  interrupted  with  a  little  stamp ;  and  by 
dint  of  some  hauling  herself,  she  managed  to  extract 
the  following  items:  that  besides  proof,  Mr.  Furness 
read  many  books  and  also  music  —  without  recourse 
to  any  instrument  too,  which  seemed  odd;  that  the 
piano  in  his  room  was  played  chiefly  by  his  friend 
the  organist  of  the  Catholic  church;  that  sometimes 
of  an  evening,  when  Julian  was  feeling  "  smart,"  her 
informant  hauled  him  out  for  a  stroll,  or  to  a  concert 
when  there  was  anything  doing  in  that  line,  which 
there  chiefly  was  n't.  No,  he  ought  n't  to  live  here, 
the  man  agreed ;  it  was  n't  elegant  quarters ;  but  he 
was  set  on  working  and  this  particular  job  took  his 
fancy;  he  was  full  of  queer  ideas  but  had  a  pile  of 
sense  besides.  She  learned  furthermore  that  Mrs. 
Wyndam  had  fixed  his  rooms  up  once,  but  that  they 
had  sort  of  slumped  since,  and  neither  Hercules  nor 
his  employer  knew  what  to  do  about  it,  much  to  their 
regret. 

"  I  believe  you  like  him !  "  Zandrie  exclaimed. 

At  this  charge,  he  draped  one  leg  over  the  foot- 


ii2  ZANDRIE 

board  of  the  bed  and  flicked  a  bit  of  mud  from  his 
boot.  "  Well,  I  guess  I  did  kind  of  like  the  cut  of 
his  jib  from  the  start.  But  he  was  awful  dubious 
about  me.  I  used  to  handle  baggage,  don't  you  see? 
and  he  mistrusted  I  might  n't  handle  him  neat 
enough.  Gee !  but  I  thought  he  'd  bust  himself  laugh- 
in'  when  I  give  him  the  baggage  master's  recommend. 
I  guess  that  got  my  vote.  There  was  another  chap 
applied  —  looked  more  fashionable  than  me,  and  got 
the  job  first ;  but  he  'd  have  spoiled  Jule's  chance  for 
a  front  seat  in  Heaven  in  a  week,  though  I  guess  the 
Lord  would  have  seen  how  things  had  went,  and  made 
excuse,  wouldn't  he?  I'd  excuse  Jule  if  he  cussed 
his  own  mother.  And  he  's  kept  pretty  silent,  con- 
sidering —  leastways  lately." 

Zandrie  drew  a  long  breath.  "Poor  soul!  If  I 
thought  he  would  n't  try  — "  But  what  she  had  in 
mind  to  say,  can  only  be  guessed,  for  she  was  in- 
terrupted  by  an  electric  bell. 

"  That 's  him,"  the  man  said,  "  I  guess  I  '11  have  to 

go/' 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  Zandrie,  "  for  I  'm  going 
myself!" 

The  green  bronze  lamp  was  lighted  now,  but  the 
book  on  Julian's  knees  was  unopened  and  his  hands 
were  clasped  behind  his  head.  At  her  entrance, 
;<  Thank  the  saints !  "  he  said,  and  his  smile,  though  a 
little  wicked,  bespoke  true  gratitude  to  something. 

She  leaned  over  him,  both  hands  on  an  arm  of  his 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    CHAIR       113 

chair.     "  You  won't  send  me  back  to  the  convent  ?  " 

"  Not  to-night." 

"  If  you  'd  promise  not  to  speak  of  such  things 
again,  I  'd  call  you  what  I  used  to.  Remember?  " 

"  I  remember  something  you  used  to  do."  He  was 
quite  delightful  of  a  sudden! 

"Kiss  you?  Of  course.  //  you're  good!  Oh, 
but  not  till  then ! "  and  she  skipped  out  of  reach. 
"  But  I  '11  never  leave  you  again  unless  you  try  to 
send  me  back ;  and  then  I  '11  run  away  again,  only 
farther.  But  if  you  don't,  see!  I'll  stand  as  stupid 
and  submissive  as  Sister  Gertrude." 

This  seemed  to  amuse  him.  He  asked  where  she 
had  been  hiding;  and  she  said,  "  In  the  room  of  your 
friend  who  talks  through  his  nose  about  you." 

"Carter's  room!" 

"His  name  is  Carter?  Well,  I  just  got  under 
Carter's  bed  when  I  thought  you'd  sent  after  me; 
and  then  I  got  on  it  and  slept  like  a  baby,  and  woke 
to  find  Carter  glaring  as  though  he  saw  the  Devil. 
And  then  we  got  to  talking  about  you.  And  now 
you  '11  have  to  decide  where  to  stow  me,  for  I  'm 
back  to  stay." 

She  drew  up  a  stool  —  it  was  a  crooked-legged  af- 
fair that  took  her  fancy  mightily  —  and  while  he  at- 
tacked the  problem  of  her  bestowal,  frowning  as 
though  he  found  it  knotty,  she  set  herself  to  study  his 
face,  to  find  whether  it  confirmed  what  the  man  who 
knew  him  —  and  liked  him !  —  had  told  her. 


ii4  ZANDRIE 

Dear  heaven!  what  had  become  of  that  face  that 
she  thought  her  memory  had  kept  so  well,  of  the  boy 
whom  she  must  still  call  the  "  real "  Julian  ?  Where 
had  its  sparkle  gone,  and  its  vivid  youth?  This  was 
another,  quite  —  this  sombre  tale  of  struggle  written 
in  lines  of  irritability  and  the  will  to  endure.  Would 
it  ever  come  to  mean  a  Julian  equally  real,  equally 
potent  to  stir  the  imagination?  Never,  surely!  For 
the  prince  of  a  palace  of  dreams,  as  every  one  knows, 
is  beautiful  always  with  the  joy  of  living,  untouched 
by  its  passion  or  pain.  Poor  man  in  the  chair!  It 
was  pity,  of  course,  that  had  sent  her  back  and  would 
keep  her  loyally  near  him,  she  told  herself.  In  fact, 
she  had  to  repeat  it  as  though  for  her  own  conviction, 
and  in  defiance  of  a  sense  of  the  futility  of  pity,  that 
was  growing  while  she  looked.  For  behind  the  eyes 
and  mouth  of  this  unknown  Julian  stood  a  wholesome 
energy  of  will  that  somehow  turned  pity  away  dis- 
comfited, apologetic.  Pity?  where  none  was  asked 
and  the  record  of  struggle,  however,  grim,  was  signed 
with  pride  of  tested  strength,  the  sight  of  which  must 
put  one  on  one's  mettle !  She  locked  her  fingers  tight- 
er about  her  knees.  It  was  disconcerting,  this  rout 
of  pity.  But  if  she  grudged  the  homage  she  had  to 
yield  in  its  place,  it  was  because  of  the  memory  of 
the  spell  that  the  other  Julian  had  wrought  upon  her, 
bending  her  will  to  his.  But  he  would  never  rule  her 
so  again;  he  would  soon  know  that  her  own  will  had 
found  itself  and  was  ready. 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    CHAIR       115 

But  what  was  he  doing  now  —  eyeing  her  with 
such  uncalled  for,  ill  concealed  amusement !  Had  she 
any  plans,  he  asked  —  besides  staying  ? 

"  Hundreds ! "  Must  she  always  be  telling  him 
she  was  not  a  child?  "  I  'm  going  to  find  my  field  of 
work,  near  you  somewhere,  and  work  very  hard. 
Meanwhile  I  '11  stay  right  here." 

"  You  '11  have  to  to-night,  I  reckon.  Mrs.  Bright 
must  fix  it  somehow.  I  '11  send  for  her." 

"  The  black-robed  woman  that  let  me  in  ?  Then  we 
won't  send  for  her.  She  'd  put  out  your  lamp  at  a 
glance.  Do  you  sleep  there?  " — pointing  to  a  couch. 

"  In  the  next  room,"  he  said. 

"  Then  I  '11  sleep  on  that  —  it  looks  comfortable 
enough  —  and  you  need  n't  say  a  word  to  Sister  Shab- 
by-Hair." 

"  That  would  hardly  do,"  he  said  gravely ;  and  when 
she  demanded  the  reason  why,  the  only  one  that  he 
gave  was  that  he  would  rather  not  have  her. 

"  How  inhospitable !  " 

"  Great  Caesar ! "  He  reached  for  the  button  of 
an  electric  bell  wire  lying  on  the  table.  "  Wait, 
though.  You  'd  better  get  Mrs.  Bright  yourself. 
And  would  you  mind  staying  down  stairs  till  she 
comes  back  for  you  ?  " 

Zandrie  pouted,  but  rose  from  the  crooked-legged 
stool. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.     "  Good  night." 

"  Good  night  ?     But  I  'm  coming  back !  " 


n6  ZANDRIE 


He  was  very  sorry,  he  explained,  but  he  would 
have  to  ask  her  to  wait  till  morning ;  it  was  after  eight 
and  he  was  going  to  be  busy  through  the  rest  of  the 
evening. 

Yes,  he  had  grown  very  harsh  and  unkind,  and  she 
walked  to  the  door  trembling  under  the  hurt  of  this 
new  unfriendliness. 

"  Zandrie !  "  The  tone  made  the  name  an  appeal. 
"  You  don't  quite  understand,"  he  said,  "  I  don't 
blame  you !  "  When  she  reached  his  side,  he  took  her 
hand  with  his  old  time  gentleness.  "If  I  really 
seemed  inhospitable,  it 's  because  you  know  so  little 
about  the  world,  it  scares  me  —  good  Lord!  it  scares 
me  into  wishing  for  once  that  I  were  a  woman! " 

She  smiled  at  the  irrelevance  of  the  wish.  He 
would  not  be  rude  to  her  for  the  world,  he  went  on; 
and  "  I  suppose  I  do  know  very  little,"  she  murmured, 
"  but  oh !  I  want  to  know  and  live !  " 

"  I  reckon  you  will,  Sister  Bobolink." 

"  Ah !  I  begin  to  like  you  again !  "  and  she  caught 
up  his  hand  to  her  lips.  "  When  you  call  me  that  — 
I  thought  you  had  surely  forgotten.  Must  I  really 
go  for  Mrs.  Mournful?  Good  night,  then,"  and  she 
bestowed  a  little  pat  on  his  shoulder  in  token  of  for- 
giveness and  good  will. 

Down  stairs,  knitting  beside  a  lamp  whose  green 
globe  shade  swallowed  most  of  its  light,  sat  Mrs. 
Bright  —  O  irony  of  names!  At  Zandrie's  message, 
she  raised  her  eyebrows  and  went  creaking  up  to 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    CHAIR      117 

Julian's  room,  where  she  stayed  a  long  time.  Then 
she  creaked  back  again,  past  the  sitting  room  and 
down  another  flight  of  stairs.  The  rattling  of  dishes 
reminded  Zandrie  that  she  was  desperately  hungry; 
yet  when  she  sat  at  last  in  the  basement  dining  room, 
at  a  table  covered  with  blue  denim  and  furnished  with 
bread,  cold  mutton,  and  a  cup  of  tea,  her  spirit  was 
little  cheered.  The  cup  was  big  enough  to  drown  al- 
most any  sorrow,  but  failed  to  invite  her  present  woes 
to  suicide;  and  not  the  least  of  these  was  the  pre- 
posterous silence  of  Mrs.  Bright.  That  lady  sat  in 
the  shadow  of  the  sideboard  —  a  horrific  monster  of 
black  walnut  —  and  to  Zandrie's  all  but  tearful  en- 
treaty to  say  something,  made  the  Delphic  reply  that  a 
promise  was  a  promise,  and  uttered  never  another 
syllable.  Julian  explained  several  days  later,  that,  as 
delicately  as  he  knew  how,  he  had  hinted  to  his  land- 
lady that  her  guest  was  too  weary  that  night  for  con- 
versation. For  the  present,  the  mystery  annihilated  a 
large  part  of  her  appetite.  "  Can  I  go  to  bed  some- 
where, now  ?  "  she  asked  disconsolately ;  whereupon 
her  hostess  led  her,  still  in  silence,  up  three  flights  of 
stairs  to  a  door  that  she  opened  with  a  sign  to  Zandrie 
to  go  in.  Alone  in  the  room,  she  threw  herself  on  the 
bed.  She  had  left  her  bundle  of  clothes  doubtless  in 
the  too  interesting  station ;  but  they  were  no  great  loss ; 
it  was  good  to  have  so  immediate  an  excuse  for  the 
pink  dress.  Yet  even  a  vision  of  rosy  ruffles  could  not 
keep  out  the  sense  of  unfulfillment  —  the  sneaking  lit- 


n8  ZANDRIE 


tie  loneliness  —  yes,  actually  a  home-sickness  for  her 
room  under  the  retreat-house  roof.  Here  on  the 
threshold  of  her  new  life,  such  feelings  were  not  to  be 
tolerated,  and  she  knelt  to  say  her  rosary  as  fast  as  she 
could;  but  the  Virgin  seemed  a  far-away  divinity; 
thought  of  her  Knight  himself  brought  small  comfort; 
and  so  her  first  day  in  the  world  ended  with  tears. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MORNING 

The  sun  shone  into  her  eyes,  waking  her  as  one  of 
the  town  clocks  struck  five.  A  breeze  stole  in,  cold  and 
crystal  pure  as  dew,  trembling  with  the  notes  of  the 
bell,  glorified  with  spring;  and  under  its  caress  unrea- 
soning gladness  spread  through  her.  In  the  fairyland 
of  the  east,  glimpsed  between  the  shoulders  of  two 
hills,  she  saw  islands  of  flaming  cloud  afloat  on  a  pale 
gold  sea.  Smoke  from  the  valley  chimneys  went  up 
transmuted  to  gold  dust.  Trees,  filmy  and  shimmer- 
ing with  the  gold-green  of  buds,  spread  a  network  of 
violet  shadows  over  the  dew.  From  the  roof  of  a 
wing  of  the  printing  house,  a  robin  scolded  a  cat ;  then 
swooped  to  the  willow  tree  in  the  yard  below  —  but 
for  its  willow  and  budding  cherry,  an  ugly  patch  of 
yard,  squeezed  between  the  printing  house  and  a  brick 
store,  and  stared  at  blankly  by  the  windows  of  an 
untenanted  house  at  the  back.  Yet  Zandrie,  seeing  it 
and  the  roofs  beyond,  and  farther  yet,  the  hills, 
stretched  out  her  arms  and  laughed,  whispering,  "  I 
love  you ! "  The  little  breeze  must  have  wrought  a 
spell. 

119 


120  ZANDRIE 


Tingling  deliciously  with  the  sense  of  freedom,  she 
stole  down  stairs  without  her  hat,  out  and  away 
towards  the  eastern  hills.  It  was  a  long  walk  past 
shops  and  factories,  across  a  bridge  over  a  swirling, 
muddy  stream,  and  past  more  shops  and  a  row  of 
dilapidated  dwellings;  but  she  trudged  valiantly  on  to 
the  outskirts  of  scattered  farms,  and  at  last  to  open 
fields  and  the  foot  of  a  hill.  But  after  the  climb, 
weariness  fell  from  her  and  she  lay  on  a  floor  of  pun- 
gent needles,  holding  her  breath,  hands  clasped,  listen- 
ing to  the  wind  that  rustled  defiant  masses  of  spruce 
and  pine,  under  whose  shower  of  piercing  fragrance 
her  heart  beat  faster;  for  the  woods  behind  the  con- 
vent, bountiful,  gracious,  and  well  loved,  yet  lacked  the 
evergreens'  challenging  hardihood.  When  a  branch 
flung  its  load  of  dew  drops  into  her  eyes,  she  shouted 
for  delight.  Once  and  again  she  threw  herself  on  the 
ground  to  lay  her  cheek  against  small  sprouting  things. 
Then  when  she  had  caught  a  low  sweeping  limb  of 
spruce  and  scrambled  up,  a  brown,  speckle-breasted 
bird  cocked  his  eye  at  her,  his  body  swaying  to  a  mad- 
ness of  liquid  music  that  bubbled  in  his  throat,  and 
"  You  beautiful!  "  she  whispered;  but  when  a  jealous 
red  squirrel  jerked  his  tail,  kicking  his  hind  feet  till 
they  were  a  blur,  and  broke  in  on  the  solo  with  a  series 
of  squeaks  that  swelled  to  a  blasphemous  frenzy  of  hic- 
coughs and  snarls,  she  all  but  fell  from  her  branch  for 
laughter.  And  it  was  then,  when  she  was  swinging 
with  her  bough,  laughing  in  pure  joy  of  living  and  her 


MORNING  121 


heart  singing  "  Free !  Free !  Free !  " —  it  was  then  that 
the  first  full  realization  of  Julian's  lot  sprang  upon  her, 
bursting  upon  the  revel,  to  steal  the  wine. 

Slowly  she  climbed  down,  impatient  when  her  dress 
caught  on  a  twig,  and  very  slowly  walked  westward, 
turning  to  look  with  hungry  eyes  at  the  woods  she  was 
leaving;  but  the  screen  of  sun-lit  pines  could  no  longer 
shut  out  the  vision  of  Julian's  face;  the  bitterness 
clung;  the  spell  was  broken.  She  shook  her  head, 
vexed ;  "  He  has  spoiled  it.  I  will  go  back  to  him ;  but 
love  him  again  ?  Never !  " —  which  she  suspected  even 
then  to  be  a  mistake. 

Swinging  on  the  gate  of  a  red  farm-house,  was  a 
very  small  person  with  a  thick  slice  of  bread.  It 
would  be  hard  to  say  to  which  Zandrie's  heart  yearned 
the  more  at  the  moment  —  the  slice  or  the  boy  —  and 
she  asked  him  whether  he  thought  she  could  have  some 
bread  too.  For  answer,  he  held  out  his  own. 

"  Not  for  the  world,  dearie !  "  she  protested ;  so  he 
scrambled  down  from  the  gate  and  ran  to  a  woman 
who  had  appeared  in  the  door-way,  smiling  with  vast 
good  nature.  "  She  would  n't  take  my  bread,"  the 
little  boy  cried,  breathless. 

"  What  for  should  she,  sonnie  ?  She  's  had  her 
breakfast." 

"  But  I  have  n't !  "  said  Zandrie.  The  friendly  face, 
leagued  with  a  memory  of  last  night's  meal,  embold- 
ened her. 

The  hint  sufficed;  she  was  heartily  invited  into  the 


122  ZANDRIE 


kitchen,  where  she  sighed  "  Ah !  this  is  better  than 
Mrs.  Bright's." 

"  You  're  staying  to  Mrs.  Bright's  next  the  printing 
house?" 

"  A  dreary  place,"  said  Zandrie. 

The  farmer's  wife  was  so  very  much  interested  that 
in  five  minutes  Zandrie  had  told  her  about  the  convent 
and  her  exit,  though  not  of  what  had  brought  her  so 
far,  for  the  habit  of  silence  concerning  her  dream  life 
held  as  though  Julian  were  still  of  it. 

"  My  gracious !  hain't  you  no  folks  at  all  ?  No 
friends?" 

"  Ye-es  —  some  friends.  One,  that  is.  And  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  to  be  going  back  to  him,  too,  but  I  am  so 
hungry! " 

"  Him !  "  The  exclamation  included  surprise  and 
misgiving;  the  accent  puzzled  her;  but  so  did  many 
things  in  the  world  already. 

"  Well !  Well !  Have  some  more  pie.  No  folks 
at  all !  I  never  did !  —  Charlie  boy,  go  fetch  Flotilla 

—  Well,  well,  well,  well !     You  Ve  got  as  honest  eyes 

—  Why,  but  you  ain't  no  more  'n  a  child  to  be  loose  in 
the  world !     If   you  would  n't   mind   me   asking  — 
Mercy  sakes !  there  's  the  baby  crying  again.     Flotilla, 
be  mannerly  to  the  young  lady  till  mama  comes  back." 

Flotilla  was  a  preternaturally  solemn  little  girl. 
After  shoving  the  milk  pitcher  towards  the  guest,  she 
sat  down  on  a  distant  chair.  Her  brother  leaned 
against  her,  standing  on  one  foot  and  holding  the 


MORNING  123 


other ;  and  both  youngsters  eyed  Zandrie  in  silence  till 
"  Turkeys  takes  longer  to  hatch  than  chickens,"  Flo- 
tilla volunteered,  in  a  high,  tiny  voice. 

Charlie  giggled.  "  Don't,"  said  his  sister.  "  It 
ain't  proper."  Zandrie  was  still  too  hungry  to  contra- 
dict. But  when  "  Mama  "  entered  with  the  baby,  she 
flew  to  meet  them. 

"  O,  the  size  of  him !  I  have  n't  touched  one  for 
years  and  years !  O,  darling,  come  to  me !  " 

"  He  's  cranky  this  morning." 

"  He  '11  come,"  Zandrie  whispered.     And  he  did. 

"  My  land !  "  the  mother  commented  softly.  "  He  's 
the  prettiest  I  've  had,  and  they  've  been  seven,  though 
these  three  's  all  I  've  raised  —  and  Billy  that  works 
down  to  the  printing  house.  There !  you  'd  better  let 
me  take  him,  and  set  down  again." 

But  at  that  moment  the  baby  was  smiling  and  his 
hand  wandering  along  Zandrie's  cheek ;  and  she  did  not 
hear. 

Charlie  mounted  a  chair  to  implant  an  explosive 
smack  on  her  nearer  hand.  Then  Flotilla  came  with 
something  in  a  basket. 

"  Bless  its  heart ! "  said  Zandrie,  "  Is  it  a  feather 
duster?" 

"  No,  ma'am ;  a  little  turkey." 

"  Oh !  Did  it  come  out  of  a  magic  bean,  for  in- 
stance?" 

Flotilla's  eyes  opened  wide,  but  she  was  tactfully 
grave ;  "No,  ma'am ;  a  egg." 


124  ZANDRIE 


Charle,  however,  roared  in  frank  mirth. 

When  a  clock  on  the  wall  struck  nine  with  rude  dis- 
tinctness, Zandrie  sighed.  Julian  might  already  have 
sent  Carter  on  another  wild  goose  chase !  So  she  must 
kiss  the  baby  once  more  —  no,  ten  times  more  —  and 
go.  "  You  've  been  kinder  to  me  than  any  one  else  in 
the  world,"  she  said  to  her  hostess.  "  Kiss  me  good- 
by." 

"  Kiss  me !  "  piped  Flotilla,  blushing.  But  Charlie 
took  what  he  wanted  without  formality.  They  all  fol- 
lowed her  to  the  gate. 

"  It 's  a  pretty  big  world  to  be  alone  in,"  the  woman 
said,  surveying  the  town  with  unflattering  eyes.  Zan- 
drie agreed  joyously.  "  I  hope  your  friend  — "  Her 
hostess  hesitated.  "  I  hope  you  're  sure  he  's  your 
friend." 

"  O,  yes !     He  means  to  be  kind,  at  least." 

"  Well !  You  're  so  young  to  be  without  any  folks 
—  maybe  you  would  n't  mind  me  asking  who  — " 

"  Mr.  Julian  Furness,"  said  Zandrie. 

"  Him !  Billy's  Mr.  Furness  next  the  printing 
house?  to  Mrs.  Bright's?  Well,  I  declare!  I  guess 
he  's  all  right.  Of  course  I  don't  know  nothing  much 
about  him,  only  Billy  likes  him.  He  gave  Billy  some 
skates  last  Christmas  —  poor  soul !  Well,  I  don't 
know  nothing  against  him,  but  just  the  same  I  —  I 
hope  you  '11  be  careful  of  yourself  —  he  can't  look  out 
for  you  much,  you  know  —  and  come  here  again  real 
soon." 


MORNING  125 


Zandrie  laughed,  kissed  the  baby  for  the  fiftieth 
time,  and  promised. 

Mrs.  Bright  received  her  explanation  of  absence  with 
sorrowful  head-shaking;  Julian  with  high  displeasure. 
"  You  had  n't  ought  to  went  so  far,"  said  the  landlady. 
"  You  must  not,"  said  Julian  —  after  dismissing 
Carter,  whose  smile  of  greeting  had  been  very  cordial. 
;<  You  know  nothing  about  the  world,"  he  went  on, 
"  and  till  you  do,  you  are  not  to  run  off  at  crack  of 
dawn,  without  your  hat." 

"  Why  not?  Why  not?  "  she  demanded  petulantly, 
for  she  was  leg- weary  and  still  hungry.  "  Who  ap- 
pointed you  my  keeper  ?  " 

"  Yourself,"  was  the  exasperating  answer. 

She  skipped  towards  the  door;  and  then,  at  sight  of 
the  flash  of  anger  in  his  eyes,  she  laughed  —  half 
nervously,  but  he  misunderstood.  "  Go  on,"  he  said, 
so  low  that  she  hardly  caught  the  words.  "  It 's  true ; 
I  can't  prevent  you." 

That  was  somewhat  childish  of  him,  of  course,  but 
she  smiled  penitence  for  her  own  childishness. 

"  I  find  the  world  very  good,  really,"  she  said,  sit- 
ting down  on  the  gnomish  stool  that  she  loved. 

"  You  know  nothing  about  it."  Then,  begging  her 
pardon,  he  took  up  a  sheet  of  proof. 

Zandrie  was  for  curling  up  on  the  couch  where  she 
had  invited  herself  to  spend  the  night,  but  the  sight 
of  dust  on  a  book-case  diverted  her.  She  looked 
about  her.  "  Saints  alive!  is  the  room  never  swept?" 


126  ZANDRIE 


"  Very  often,  confound  it!  But  it  does  n't  seem  to 
alter  the  surface  of  things  much." 

Her  first  point  of  attack  was  the  mantel  shelf,  where 
old  letters,  burnt  matches,  an  ash  tray,  and  two  Jap- 
anese vases  kept  cloister  under  a  gray  veil.  She  had 
borrowed  a  dust  cloth  of  Mrs.  Bright,  whose  eyebrows 
had  gone  up  in  bitter  surprise  at  the  request;  and  at 
the  end  of  fifteen  minutes  the  room  was  —  to  Zan- 
drie's  eyes  —  improved.  When  Julian  glanced  up  un- 
easily, she  only  laughed,  sorted,  and  dusted  the  more 
zealously.  But  the  last  time  that  their  eyes  met,  the 
irrelevant  fact  that  his  face  had  beauty  still,  startled 
her  to  vivid  consciousness,  like  a  little  electric  shock, 
and  she  turned  away  confusedly,  passing  her  dust  cloth 
over  a  book  that  she  had  dusted  already.  She  opened 
it  aimlessly,  but  the  word  "  prison  "  soon  caught  her 
interest.  It  was  a  story  about  a  Frenchman  named 
Valjean  and  his  escape  from  pursuers,  more  excit- 
ing by  far  than  the  life  of  any  saint  or  than  any  of  the 
novels  in  the  library  of  Our  Lady's.  Her  heart  beat 
fast  in  sympathy  with  the  man  and  a  child,  Cosette, 
whom  she  was  with  at  last,  soul  and  body,  forgetful  of 
her  re-discovery  of  Julian's  beauty,  even  after  his 
voice  had  called  her  out  from  the  book.  She  held  it 
before  him,  her  excitement  pouring  itself  out  in  a  tor- 
rent of  questions.  "  I  never  read  a  novel  like  this !  " 
she  ended,  breathless. 

"  Most  probably  not !  " 


MORNING  127 


"  It  must  be  true !  The  nuns  said  all  good  novels 
were  true  in  a  way  —  though  I  never  read  one  before 
that  really  sounded  true." 

He  admitted  that  this  was  very  true. 

"  Then  I  can  learn !  "  she  cried,  snatching  it  from 
his  hands.  "  Translated  from  the  French !  The 
Bible  's  translated  because  it 's  so  great.  Is  it  read 
much  in  the  world  ?  "  But  she  did  not  wait  for  an 
answer.  At  the  end  of  the  fifth  page,  however,  she 
looked  up  at  him.  He  had  not  said  a  word,  but  "  Why 
did  you  call  me  out  again?  "  she  asked. 

"  Don't  read  it  now,"  he  said.  "If  you  try  to 
take  life  in  such  doses,  something  will  happen,  I  'm 
afraid." 

"  That  will  always  be  slipping  into  what  you  say 
about  me — 'afraid' — though  for  yourself  you're 
brave  enough.  But  it 's  good  to  know,  and  I  must 
catch  up  with  my  life,  you  see.  If  one  were  afraid  at 
the  outset  — "  She  fell  to  her  reading  again. 

But  "  That  particular  book  will  only  bewilder  you 
now,"  he  persisted.  "  Trust  me  for  once." 

"  While  you  try  to  make  a  coward  of  me  —  never !  " 

He  held  out  his  hand. 

"  What  right  have  you  — "  she  flashed  out ;  but  his 
eyes  compelled  her.  For  the  moment,  however  much 
she  might  resent  it,  the  will  in  them  held  her,  and, 
hardly  conscious  of  what  she  was  doing,  she  started  to 
give  him  the  book.  What  with  weariness  of  body  and 


128  ZANDRIE 


bewilderment  at  unreasonable  opposition,  all  spirit  of 
resistance  seemed  oozing  out  of  her;  but  when  his 
hand  closed  on  the  volume,  her  native  wil  fulness 
nudged  her  pride. 

"  Zandrie ! "  It  was  a  command  no  less  for  that 
his  voice  was  quiet.  "  I  've  lived  longer  than  you,  not 
in  the  world  exactly,  these  last  years;  but  a  woman 
in  my  place  would  know  more  of  it  than  you  do.  Will 
you  trust  me  ?  " 

"  I  hate  you !  "  was  the  answer. 

It  surprised  herself;  no  less  by  its  being  a  complete 
lie  than  by  its  unexpectedness.  The  blood  rose  in  her 
cheeks  and  she  bowed  her  head.  After  a  pause,  "  I 
did  n't  mean  it,"  she  said.  "  You  know  I  —  love 
you." 

As  the  pause  endured,  she  thought  the  apology  must 
have  failed ;  yet  when  she  ventured  to  look,  there  was 
nothing  but  laughter  in  his  eyes.  She  would  have 
preferred  to  find  him  offended !  "  I  do,"  she  said. 
"Why  do  you  laugh?" 

"  It 's  so  long  since  I  've  been  told  so !  " 

"  I  '11  never  tell  you  so  again." 

"  O,  yes  you  will !  But  I  advise  you  not  to  tell 
many  others  how  you  love  them." 

"  Indeed  I  shall.  Besides,  the  nuns  said  we  ought 
not  only  to  love  each  other,  but  to  prove  it  in  word  and 
act  —  which  is  one  of  the  few  things  I  liked  about 
them." 

His  expression  was  disconcerting. 


MORNING  129 


"  Is  n't  that  the  way  in  the  world,  then?  "  she  asked, 
quite  in  earnest. 

"  It  is  n't  exactly  customary,  you  know,  to  — " 

"  Not  customary  to  love !  " 

"  To  say  so,"  he  corrected. 

She  pondered  this  astounding  statement.  First  she 
made  sure  that  he  meant  it;  then  "  Stop  looking  at  me 
as  though  I  were  a  little  goblin/'  she  commanded, 
"  and  explain  everything !  Don't  you  understand  that 
I  must  know  everything  about  the  world,  at  once  ?  " 

"  You  're  a  right  terrifying  thing  to  drop  into  a 
man's  life,"  he  said  to  that. 

She  stamped  her  foot.  "  Why  is  n't  it  customary 
to  say  it  when  one  loves  ?  " 

He  stiffened  as  against  an  onslaught.     "  I  only  said 

—  I  meant,  it  was  n't  customary  —  well,  for  you  to 
tell  me,  for  instance." 

She  almost  laughed. 

"  Because  — "  he  went  on,  "  Well,  I  reckon  just 
because  you  're  a  woman  and  I,  a  man." 

Life  was  at  best  a  tangled  affair ;  she  had  known  that 
even  in  convent  days.  She  had  known  that  beyond 
the  walls  lay  knottier  problems  still  —  some  perhaps 
so  hard  that  the  patience  and  courage  of  a  life  time 
might  scarcely  untie  them.  But  here  was  a  knot  too 
absurdly  small  for  talk  of  courage,  yet  big  enough  to 
vex.  Had  it  been  a  question  of  expressing  hatred  — 
"  It 's  silly !  "  she  cried.  "  You  must  tell  me  in  earnest 

—  what  you  meant  by  saying  — " 


I3o  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


"O  pshaw!" 

"Well?  You 're  a  man  and  I,  a  woman.  What  of 
that?" 

But  he  only  sat  silent. 

Some  mystery  was  gathering  about  her  like  a  mist. 
"  You  won't  explain?  " 

But  he  still  sat  silent. 

"  You  ought  to  explain  if  you  can."  Then  "  Speak 
to  me !  "  she  cried  plaintively. 

And  at  that,  he  spoke,  addressing  himself  to  the 
mantel-piece.  "  I  'm  a  damned  fool !  Oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon !  But  questions  always  have  that  effect  on  me. 
I  ought  to  have  warned  you."  He  took  up  the  proof 
sheets  that  he  had  laid  aside,  and  began  to  work  dili- 
gently. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  that  held  the  pen.  "  I 
know,"  she  said,  "  that  men  are  somehow  different 
from  the  rest  of  us;  yes,  and  the  nuns  had  very  little 
to  do  with  them,  not  counting  priests ;  but  I  never  knew 
why  nor  thought  to  ask  till  this  very  moment.  Men  — 
all  but  priests  and  poor  McClung  —  were  n't  allowed 
on  the  grounds  except  under  force  of  circumstances, 
such  as  a  gas  leak !  " 

"  Or  cracked  vertebrae  ?  " 

"  Ah !  And  I  know  that  men  are  made  stronger 
than  women,  though  why,  only  the  good  God  can  tell. 
And  I  know  that  outside  the  convent,  men  and  women 
marry,  which  means  that  they  live  together  ever  after  ; 
and  of  course  they  have  to  love  each  other  a  good 


MORNING  131 


deal  to  do  that  —  even  better  than  I  love  you !  Why ! 
you  once  asked  Sister  Angela  to  let  you  take  me  away 
to  live  with  you !  " 

"  Because  I  thought  you  'd  be  happier  out  in  the 
world." 

"  Oh !  Yet  you  seemed  to  love  me  lots  in  those 
days  —  more  than  now,  I  guess." 

"You  think  so?" 

She  looked  up  into  his  eyes  and  then  laughed  glee- 
fully. He  was  not  changed!  How  had  she  ever 
thought  it?  "But  you  haven't  explained  yet!"  she 
exclaimed.  "If  men  and  women  don't  say  they  love 
each  other,  how  do  they  ever  agree  to  live  together  ?  " 

"  They  do  tell  each  other  —  under  those  circum- 
stances." 

"Before  or  after?" 

He  was  suddenly  inspired.  "  The  man  always  says 
it  first,  because,  as  you  said,  he  's  stronger  and  expects 
to  do  all  the  work  —  the  work,  that  is,  that  makes  the 
money  to  keep  his  wife  and  himself  and  their  house 
and  —  And  so,  if  the  woman  tells  the  man  first,  you 
see—" 

"  I  see!  "  she  cried  happily,  for  the  mist  was  lifting 
indeed.  "  Of  course  it  would  n't  be  polite  or  right. 
How  simple !  O  stupid  Julian !  why  could  n't  you  have 
told  me  sooner?  Only  of  course — " 

"Well?" 

"Of  course  it 's  different  with  us  two.  I  mean," 
she  added  hastily,  "  that  we  understand  one  another, 


132  ZANDRIE 


so  that  when  I  say  '  I  love  you  ' —  which  I  do  like 
everything  —  you  know  just  what  I  mean  —  that  I  'm 
not  asking  you  to  take  me  and  — " 

"  I  understand." 

"  You  do,  don't  you !  And  you  told  me  about  its 
not  being  customary  to  say  those  things,  perhaps  so 
I  should  n't  make  mistakes  with  others  who  might  n't 
understand.  O  you  're  good !  Yes,  and  I  '11  say  it  a 
thousand  times  —  to  you,  but  to  no  other  man  in  the 
world.  Oh,  if  you  like  me  the  least  bit,  what  good 
friends  we  '11  be !  "  and  she  clasped  her  hands  in  her 
old-time  gesture  of  glee. 

But  a  minute  more,  and  something  curious  had  hap- 
pened. First,  as  she  studied  his  profile, —  for  he  had 
taken  up  his  neglected  work  again  —  first,  she  won- 
dered why  she  had  been  loath  to  come  back  from  the 
woods;  then,  feeling  in  memory  the  touch  of  the 
breeze,  the  thrill  of  the  hill-top  caught  her  breath;  and 
yet  again,  seeing  the  blue  veins  of  his  temple,  and  a 
sunbeam  that  was  creeping  over  his  hair  —  thick  as 
of  old,  and  golden  under  the  touch  of  the  sun  as  when 
she  had  seen  it  first  —  then  she  found  herself  swept 
up  on  a  blinding  surge  of  new  emotion,  leaned  for- 
ward, drew  his  head  to  her  lips,  and  kissed  his  fore- 
head. 

He  started  with  an  exclamation  and  seized  her 
wrists  to  pull  her  nearer  but  suddenly  pushed  her 
away  instead.  In  his  eyes  there  was  only  amused 


MORNING  133 


surprise.  "  So  I  've  been  good!  "  he  said  at  last.  But 
she  had  forgotten  her  promise  of  the  night  before. 
"  You  're  making  it  uncommonly  hard  for  me  to  be 
good,  you  know  ?  "  But  still  she  hardly  heard,  for  the 
surge  had  swept  her  up  to  the  stars. 

When  he  released  her  hands,  they  fell  nerveless 
on  the  wheel  of  his  chair,  while  a  hot  flush  flooded 
her  face,  not  of  shame,  but  of  surprised,  new  ecstacy. 
When  she  raised  her.  eyes,  he  was  intent  on  his  proof. 
"  I  'm  sorry,"  he  murmured  politely,  "  but  this  has  to 
be  finished  by  twelve." 

As  she  rose  uncertainly,  something  fell  against  her 
foot  —  the  forbidden  book.  If  the  issue  of  that  en- 
gagement had  been  doubtful,  it  was  decided  now;  she 
laid  "  Les  Miserables  "  on  the  table.  But  Julian  was 
too  tactful  to  notice  —  or  too  busy. 

While  she  stood  watching  him  with  a  curiously 
beating  heart,  the  noon  whistles  blew.  "  Sorry  to 
seem  rude,"  he  said,  "  but  —  you  '11  really  have  to  go. 
They  '11  send  for  this  presently.  And  Carter  '11  have 
to  be  here  helping  me  this  afternoon,  so  —  can  you 
come  back  at  five  ?  And  Zandrie  —  please  don't  go 
out  without  telling  Mrs.  Bright  where  you  're  going." 

"  Ugh !     Won't  Carter  do  as  well  ?  " 

"  Heaven  help  us !  "  But  his  laughter,  however 
perplexing,  was  good  to  hear. 

Though  the  sunlight  was  still  on  his  hair  and  the 
laugh  in  his  eyes,  she  turned  away.  She  walked  along 


i34  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

the  dingy  corridor  as  through  a  hall  of  her  cloud 
palace,  bewildered,  awed,  but  happy  —  oh,  very  hap- 
py! And  when  she  had  closed  the  door  of  her 
room,  she  leaned  against  it,  and  "  O  my  life !  "  she 
whispered,  "  what  has  happened  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XII 

AFTERNOON 

Dinner  was  interesting,  on  the  whole.  Carter,  at 
one  end  of  the  table,  furiously  whetted  the  carving 
knife,  and  then,  but  for  a  half  dozen  furtive  glances 
at  Zandrie,  stared  down  into  his  plate  and  spoke  not 
a  word.  The  other  boarders,  of  whom  all  but  an 
elderly  lady  were  men,  also  assaulted  their  plates  in 
weary  silence  until  the  entrance  of  a  thin  little  woman 
who  took  a  seat  opposite  Zandrie,  and  whom  Mrs. 
Bright  desired  to  present  as  Mrs.  Smith.  Mrs.  Smith 
in  turn  desired  to  present  her  husband,  who  arrested 
a  fork-load  of  rice,  to  bow  and  declare  himself  de- 
lighted. "  I  'd  be  pleased  to  know,"  Mrs.  Smith  an- 
nounced while  waiting  to  be  served,  " — real  pleased 
to  know  who  has  been  prowling  round  my  room  this 
morning." 

"O  let  up!"  her  husband  interrupted.  "I  tell 
you  the  room  's  been  swep'." 

"  Mine  has  not,"  said  the  elderly  lady. 

Mrs.  Bright  raised  her  eyebrows  and  offered  more 
veal  to  a  fat  gentleman  at  her  left,  who  was  of  a 
pacific  nature.  "  Don't  care  if  I  do,"  he  responded 

135 


136  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


loyally.  "  Licking  good  veal  -  —  better  than  week  be- 
fore last,  'pon  honor.  Pass  up  the  Worcestershire, 
somebody!  Thanks,  thanks!  Say,  ladies  and  gents, 
just  follow  my  lead  and  don't  have  your  rooms  swep' 
but  twiced  a  year.  That's  my  plan  since  Mrs.  T's 
demise,  and  it  hasn't  reduced  my  weight  a  mite, 
neither!" 

During  dessert,  a  blushing  young  man  upset  the 
milk  pitcher,  and  it  was  the  tactful  fat  gentleman  who 
relieved  his  embarrassment  by  bellowing  "  Where's  the 
cat  ?  Hi,  pussy,  pussy,  pussy !  " 

No  one  paid  any  attention  to  Zandrie  except  Carter, 
whose  eye  she  caught  now  and  then,  to  his  florid  dis- 
may, and  Mrs.  Smith,  who  smiled  upon  her  and  asked 
whether  she  was  a  transient ;  also  whether  she  did  n't 
relish  date  pie.  She  herself  had  given  the  recipe  to 
Mrs.  Bright,  but  the  pie  had  not  yet  appeared  on  the 
table;  the  price  of  dates  had  risen  lately,  maybe. 
"  That 's  right,"  said  her  husband.  But  no  one  else 
seemed  to  be  listening,  not  even  Mrs.  Bright,  towards 
whom  Zandrie's  heart  suddenly  softened. 

After  dinner,  the  obliging  Carter  lent  her  a  pencil 
and  paper  whereby  to  write  a  letter  to  Mrs.  McClung. 
But  it  was  odd,  how  her  thoughts  would  dance  away 
whenever  she  tried  to  pin  them  to  the  paper.  At 
four  o'clock  she  had  written  not  quite  half  a  page;  at 
quarter  past  four  she  had  torn  that  sheet  and  begun 
another;  at  half  past  four  she  discovered  that  Car- 
ter's pencil  was  dull;  at  twenty-five  minutes  before 


AFTERNOON  137 

five  the  second  sheet  went  the  way  of  the  first.  Yet 
at  Our  Lady's,  the  ease  with  which  Zandrie  wrote 
compositions  had  been  so  famous!  At  fourteen  min- 
utes of  five  she  had  no  more  paper,  and  at  thirteen 
minutes,  the  pencil  had  rolled  under  the  table. 

As  for  Julian,  when  she  opened  his  door  at  the 
third  stoke  of  five,  he  merely  looked  up  from  his  proof 
sheets  with  an  extraordinarily  formal  bow,  and  asked 
her  to  sit  down  and  excuse  him  for  working  a  few 
minutes  longer.  In  fact,  his  tone  was  curiously  like 
Sister  Angela's  when,  forcing  down  all  signs  of  an- 
ger, she  had  sometimes  bidden  Zandrie  the  culprit  to 
sit  down. 

"  I  don't  want  to  sit  down,"  she  said,  not  defiantly 
as  before  Sister  Angela,  however. 

At  last,  as  she  stood  looking  at  him,  mystified, 
wistful,  yet  happy  at  the  core  of  her,  he  began  to 
smile  as  though  in  spite  of  himself;  and  "Ah!"  she 
cried,  "  you  're  nice  once  more !  It  must  be  the  work 
that  makes  you  sometimes  queer." 

"  Only  the  unusual  effort  to  be  good,"  he  explained 
gravely. 

She  had  crossed  the  room,  meanwhile,  to  look  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  long  printed  sheets  on  whose  mar- 
gins he  scribbled  little  hieroglyphics,  from  which  her 
glance  soon  wandered  to  his  hair.  That  was  better ! 
It  was  darker  than  of  old,  to  be  sure,  and  there  was 
no  sunbeam  now  to  draw  out  its  gold,  yet  of  a  sud- 
den she  yearned  with  a  mysterious  pain  to  lay  her 


138  ZANDRIE 


cheek  against  it,  as  she  used  to  do.  This  morning 
she  might  have  yielded  to  the  impulse,  but  now  — 
now  her  hand  lay  still  on  the  rim  of  the  chair-back  as 
though  tied  there. 

"  Please  be  through,"  she  pleaded  at  last.  "  I  've 
something  to  tell  you." 

"  At  your  command,  rnadame.  I  '11  defy  the  whole 
pack  if  you  '11  sit  down." 

"  You  're  a  very  brave,  wonderful  man."  She  was 
looking  at  his  work  again. 

"Who  told  you  so?" 

"  Carter !  "  she  said  triumphantly.  "  He  says  you 
work  most  of  the  time." 

"  So  do  most  men." 

"  Of  course;  I  shall  do  it  myself  some  day;  but  not 
such  work  as  yours.  And  Carter  says  you  don't  even 
have  to  do  it." 

"  I  had  to  —  or  grow  unfit  for  the  society  of  la- 
dies." 

"  But  Carter  says  — " 

"  Confound  Carter !  " 

"  Ah,  I  love  to  hear  men  swear !  "  and  she  hugged 
herself  joyously. 

Julian  threw  back  his  head  with  a  ringing  laugh, 
and  his  hair  brushed  her  fingers.  She  caught  her 
breath. 

"  Please  sit  down,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  still  civilized 
enough  to  hate  to  keep  my  seat  while  a  lady  stands." 

A  curious  feeling!     But  she  seated  herself  without 


AFTERNOON  139 

questioning,  and,  chin  on  hands,  studied  his  face  once 
more.  How  had  she  ever  been  disappointed  in  it, 
for  even  a  few  minutes  ?  It  was  surely  the  most  satis- 
fying of  all  the  faces  that  she  had  seen,  and  the 
most  beautiful! 

"  What  have  you  to  tell  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  going  to  ask !  That 
I  Ve  decided  —  Guess !  " 

"  To  go  back  to  the  convent." 

"  Evil  one !  "  and  she  drew  her  stool  a  little  nearer. 
"  That  I  've  decided  to  let  you  be  my  guardian." 

But  the  effect  of  this  was  not  what  she  had  cal- 
culated; he  merely  laughed  and  thanked  her  for  the 
honor. 

"  But  you  're  not  in  earnest,"  she  faltered,  "  and  I 
am." 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  believe  you  are !  Well,  and  I 
repeat  my  thanks ;  but  really,  you  know  — " 

"  You  're  not  even  pleased !  " 

"  I  confess  I  should  n't  like  to  take  the  responsibil- 
ity." 

"  But  if  I  promised  to  be  good?  " 

"  That  would  simplify  matters,  of  course." 

"  But  you  know  I  could  n't  keep  my  promise  ?  "  She 
regarded  the  proof-sheets  on  the  floor  thoughtfully. 
"Of  course  I  never  have  been  very  good,  except  with 
you  when  I  was  a  child,  and  with  Sister  Andrea  and 
Sister  Isidore,  and  sometimes  with  dear  old  Mother 
McClung.  But  I  thought  perhaps  with  you  it  might 


140  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


still  be  —  different.  I  thought  it  might  be  exciting, 
at  least,  to  try  it." 

"  But  it  might  be  safer  not  to?  " 

"  Perhaps.  You  might  come  to  hate  me  as  the 
Pious  Ladies  and  the  Sisters  did." 

"What  shall  you  say  to  them,  by  the  way?"  he 
asked. 

"  Nothing  more  than  I  said  in  my  note  to  Mrs.  Mc- 
Clung,  that  I  left  in  the  next  to  the  biggest  saucepan. 
I  've  done  with  them  forever." 

"  On  the  contrary,  they  '11  soon  be  clamoring  at  your 
door." 

"  Julian !  "  and  she  sprang  up.  "  You  have  n't  let 
them  know !  " 

He  had.  He  explained  firmly,  as  one  who  looks 
forward  to  a  scene  of  turbulence  and  little  joy,  that  he 
had  wired  the  Prioress  last  night.  "  I  can't  make  you 
see  and  I  'm  not  going  to  try,"  he  added,  "  but  you  '11 
understand  some  day  that  I  'd  be  a  scoundrel  just  to 
have  done  anything  else." 

Zandrie's  emotions  were  too  mixed  for  turbulence, 
however.  "  You  —  let  them  know !  "  One  could 
grasp  the  egregious  deed  only  as  a  fact  bared  of  im- 
port, shorn  of  intelligible  motive  or  result.  Yester- 
day, or  even  this  morning  perhaps,  she  could  have 
charged  with  treachery  and  scorched  with  scorn  this 
riddle  called  Julian;  but  now  —  what  had  happened, 
indeed,  that  now  she  merely  wanted  to  understand,  and 
to  justify! 


AFTERNOON  141 

"  They  '11  be  here  right  soon,  I  think,"  he  went  on, 
"  doing  their  best  to  get  you  back." 

"  You !  "  she  repeated,  scarcely  hearing.  "  Why  ? 
Why?" 

"  Plain  case  of  duty.  Your  coming  to  me  makes 
me  responsible  for  you." 

As  though  that  astounding  and  questionable  state- 
ment explained!  But  however  distorted  his  vision, 
it  was  plain  from  his  expression  that  he  had  acted 
upon  a  sense  of  duty  rather  than  malice.  "  Trying 
to  get  me  back,"  she  repeated  slowly.  "  No.  No,  I 
think  they  won't  do  that.  I  troubled  them  so.  I  was 
a  discord  among  them  —  a  piece  of  lava  set  in  a  marble 
wall." 

"  But  they  '11  believe  it  their  duty  to  re-set  you  in 
the  wall." 

She  pondered.  "  Perhaps  you  're  right.  But  have 
they  any  right  —  any  claim  on  me  —  to  force  me 
back?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Then  —  then  there  's  nothing  for  it  but  to  —  O 
me !  to  what  ?  I'm  caught !  Julian !  "  and  the  tears 
rushed  to  her  eyes,  "  how  could  you !  How  could 
you!" 

"  You  '11  be  brave,  I  reckon,"  he  said  gravely. 

"Brave?  I'd  almost  go  back  with  them  to  have 
you  think  me  brave.  But  oh !  you  '11  not  take  their 
part  against  me ! "  she  broke  out,  "  I  '11  see  them  — 


142  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


and  fight  —  and  be  brave.     But  promise  that  —  prom- 
ise to  fight  on  my  side !  " 

"  No,  I  won't  promise,"  he  answered  slowly  after  a 
pause  in  which  she  stared  at  him  in  waxing  fright. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  leave  you,  then  ?  "  she  asked 
at  last.  "  Ah,  but  you  can't  want  that,  when  you  've 
been  so  lonely !  And  I  —  I  Ve  been  lonely  too.  O 
the  barren,  barren  life!  Julian!  remember  it!  You 
saw  it  for  yourself.  Remember  your  own  words  to 
Sister  Angela.  Do  anything  but  try  to  send  me  back. 
Dear,  dear  Julian !  anything  but  that  —  the  convent !  " 
She  had  slipped  to  her  knees  and  clasped  her  hands 
on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  Get  up,"  he  said  gently. 

But  she  still  knelt  and  plead  in  a  passion  of  entreaty. 
"  Promise  not  to  take  their  part  against  me.  Be  my 
friend  as  you  used.  Let  me  keep  it  longer  —  my  free- 
dom —  and  my  happiness.  Promise !  Promise !  " 

Doubtless  it  was  an  awkward  situation  for  Julian, 
and  doubtless  he  wrestled  manfully  to  see  its  ethical 
demands;  and  without  any  doubt  whatever,  the  bright 
tears  on  a  lady's  lashes  help  illumine  the  horn  marked 
Duty  on  such  dilemmas.  "  I  promise  then,"  he  said 
at  last.  The  next  instant,  he  seized  her  arm.  "  Get 
up  —  quick !  " 

But  before*  the  words  were  out,  a  whirlwind  in  the 
shape  of  a  little  boy  burst  into  the  room  and  tripped 
over  Zandrie's  feet.  "  Golly ! "  was  his  only  com- 
ment. 


AFTERNOON  143 

Julian  caught  him  by  a  sleeve.  "  Knock  next  time, 
Bill;  and  meanwhile,  apologize." 

"  It 's  'most  five :  thirty,"  said  the  boy,  "  and  they 
want  the  galley  P  D  Q ;  and  how  was  I  to  know  there 
was  a  girl  sayin'  her  prayers  to  you  ?  " 

Zandrie  hastily  stood  up. 

"  Bill,"  said  Julian,  "  look  me  in  the  eye." 

Bill  obeyed,  standing  on  one  leg. 

"  Now  then,  you  '11  oblige  me  by  not  mentioning 
that  you  found  a  lady  here  saying  her  prayers.  It 's 
the  sort  of  thing  one  does  n't  publish.  And  apolo- 
gize." 

"  But  I  was  directly  in  his  path,"  said  Zandrie. 

Bill  stared  at  her  with  inscrutable  eyes  and  a  very 
crooked  smile.  "  Maybe  I  don't  mind  if  you  were. 
I  'd  just  as  leaves  apologize.  But  I  say !  —  give  us 
that  galley,  Mr.  Furness !  Jemimy  but  it 's  late !  " 

But  he  was  not  through  with  it.  Carter  would  take 
it  over,  later. 

Bill's  whistle  intimated  that  this  was  an  unusual 
procedure.  "  They  '11  want  to  know  what 's  up,"  was 
his  parting  shot,  "  but  I  ain't  the  feller  to  peach." 

Zandrie  flew  after  him  under  the  impression  that  he 
was  falling  down  stairs,  and  came  back  laughing. 
"  He  sounded  like  poor  Father  Haggarty  falling  into 
the  crypt !  What  is  the  creature  ?  " 

"  A  little  devil." 

"  Ah,  you  're  very  wicked !  "  she  said  gleefully. 

"  The  nuns  did  n't  mention  —  such  things  ?  " 


144  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


"  Only  the  —  There  's  a  difference,  you  know." 

Yes,  he  confessed  to  a  knowledge  of  the  distinction, 
and  explained  the  official  duties  of  Bill  in  the  printing 
room.  Then  he  questioned  her  about  her  dinner  ac- 
quaintances. Right  queer,  were  they?  But  no  one 
was  rude,  of  course? 

"  No  —  only  dreadfully  polite.  Especially  Mrs. 
Smith." 

"Confound  it!"  he  exclaimed,  "I'm  an  idiot  not 
to  have  thought  of  your  having  your  meals  alone." 

"Or  with  you?" 

"  That  would  be  jolly,  but  out  of  the  question." 
He  was  unable  to  give  an  intelligible  reason  why  it 
was  out  of  the  question,  however.  Mystery  number 
one.  Mystery  number  two  followed  on  its  heels, 
when  the  supper  bell  began  its  horrid  din  and  she  was 
for  obeying  it  —  and  Julian  —  without  pouting,  for 
she  would  be  back,  she  explained,  the  minute  supper 
was  over. 

But  that  too  was  out  of  the  question,  he  said,  and 
because  —  forsooth !  —  a  man  was  coming  to  see 
him. 

"  Goody!  "  she  said,  "  I  like  men!  " 

His  mouth  quivered  on  the  edge  of  a  smile,  but  he 
spoke  with  unambiguous  decision ;  "  We  '11  have  to 
say  good  night  right  now." 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  yield  with  what 
grace  one  could.  Half  way  to  the  door,  however,  a 
misgiving  waylaid  her  that  turned  her  quite  sick  at 


AFTERNOON  145 

heart.  "  You  —  you  did  n't  want  that  little  boy  to 
speak  of  me,"  she  faltered,  "  and  now,  this  man  who  's 
coming  —  You  are  n't  ashamed  of  my  friendship  —  of 
me  —  are  you?  Because  I  know  so  little  of  the 
world  ?  and  do  such  wrong  things,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Bless  your  heart,  no ! "  And  his  smile  was  so 
entirely  reassuring  that  she  forgot  all  vexing  mys- 
teries. "  The  world  's  good,  then,"  were  her  parting 
words.  "This  has  been  the  best  day  of  all  my  life. 
We  're  going  to  be  happy,  Julian  —  you  and  I !  " 

If  incredulity  was  in  his  eyes,  there  was  something 
in  hers  that  prevented  her  seeing  it.  But  why  should 
there  be  incredulity  in  his?  No  one  says  that  there 
was. 


10 


CHAPTER  XIII 

NIGHT 

At  first  she  had  slept,  but  a  sleep  of  vivid  dreams  in 
which  emotions  slip  the  noose  of  stolid  reality  and 
race  for  their  lives.  Just  before  waking,  she  had 
walked  with  some  one  through  the  palace  of  her  old 
imagining,  or  some  such  vague,  lovely,  unstable  halls ; 
and  wherever  they  strolled,  a  stream  of  light  like  in- 
candescent gold,  pouring  through  a  rent  in  the  shifty 
roof,  slanted  across  the  face  of  the  one  she  walked 
with,  so  that  at  first  she  could  not  see  the  features. 
But  as  she  looked,  she  grew  faint,  for  it  was  Julian's, 
and  the  eyes  were  drawing  the  life  from  her  body,  so 
that  she  would  have  sunk  in  a  nerveless  heap  but  for 
the  grasp  of  his  hand.  And  even  after  waking  she 
lay  for  a  while  in  the  clasp  of  the  nameless  rapture 
that  wrapped  her  about  like  flame.  "  Julian ! "  she 
whispered;  and  then  "O  God,  he  was  so  beautiful! 
Give  him  back."  And  she  closed  her  eyes  to  dream 
the  dream  again;  but  it  would  not  come,  and  already 
the  ecstacy  was  sinking,  leaving  her  wide  eyed  and 
stupid.  The  silence  began  to  grow  into  a  stifling 
presence. 

146 


NIGHT  147 

Would  the  day  with  its  bird  voices  never  come?  It 
must  be  nearly  morning.  Ah !  The  bell  of  the  town 
hall  clock  was  beginning  to  strike ;  it  would  tell  good 
news;  and  at  the  fourth  stroke,  she  sighed  with  relief. 
But  at  the  fifth,  she  started,  and  the  sixth  and  seventh 
brought  dismay.  It  was  only  midnight ! 

Her  heart  began  to  beat  with  a  growing  fear  —  of 
what,  it  was  hard  to  say;  of  another  hour  of  horrid 
silence,  perhaps.  No,  but  of  the  lurking  mystery  of 
things  —  little,  tormenting  gnats  of  mystery  as  baf- 
fling as  the  strange,  riotous  creature  that  had  beaten 
its  wings  in  her  heart  for  the  first  time  that  morning, 
after  she  had  kissed  Julian  on  the  forehead.  It  was  to 
put  down  the  commotion  of  those  wings  now  that  she 
rose  and  went  to  the  window. 

The  hill  from  which  the  breeze  had  come  at  dawn, 
shimmered  in  the  moonlight  like  a  phantom.  To  her 
eyes,  all  the  world  out  there  in  the  pallor  of  midnight 
was  as  a  part  of  her  past  dreams ;  its  loveliness  made 
no  claim  on  reality.  The  weeping  willow,  bathed  in 
moon-lit  dew,  hung  like  a  spirit  over  the  cavern  of  its 
own  shadow.  Trees,  roofs,  chimneys,  and  the  hills 
beyond,  all  floated  in  a  sea  of  wan,  unreal  beauty. 

She  sat  on  the  floor  and  laid  her  head  on  the  window 
sill  where  the  night  air  might  cool  her  cheeks.  But 
the  winged  thing  at  her  heart  was  not  to  be  shaken  off. 
What  was  the  tumult  about,  then?  What  had  hap- 
pened? Dearly  as  she  had  loved  her  father  and 
mother  and  Sister  Isidore,  she  remembered  no  such 


148  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

riot  of  blood  in  her  body,  when  she  had  kissed  them. 
"  O  my  life !  "  she  whispered,  "  I  want  him.  Julian !  " 

The  longing  to  get  nearer  to  him  shook  her  back 
into  a  sense  of  reality,  so  that  the  splendor  of  the 
moon-lit  country  was  at  last  a  vital  thing.  A  wind 
had  arisen,  and  the  pale  streamers  of  the  willow  swung 
and  tossed,  and  all  the  world  without  was  disquieted 
as  herself.  Now  trees  and  roofs  were  under  shadow ; 
now  a  gust  tore  the  cloud  from  before  the  moon,  dis- 
tilling pearly  shimmer  from  shadow  and  sending  mul- 
titudinous whispers  into  the  night.  A  planet  was 
swinging  up  over  the  hill  top,  the  white  liquid  of  its 
light  brimming  over  into  a  tiny  halo.  Yes,  the  world 
was  beautiful,  however  mysterious,  and  "  I  have  be- 
gun to  live  at  last,"  she  told  herself.  "  He  said  that  I 
should."  Once  more  the  pain  of  longing  shook  her;  it 
brought  her  to  her  feet;  it  was  resistless.  And  why 
should  one  resist?  She  would  dress  and  steal  down 
to  his  door,  careful  to  wake  no  one,  and  then  she 
would  merely  listen  and  be  grateful  for  any  sound 
from  within  that  should  be  the  least  sign  of  his  living 
presence.  He  could  find  no  objection,  should  he 
know ;  and  he  would  not  know. 

The  hall  window  gave  no  light  because  of  the  near- 
ness of  the  store.  The  blackness  was  just  a  little 
dreadful;  for  she  was  still  child  enough  in  her  dread 
of  the  dark.  And  how  a  board  in  the  third  stair  had 
verily  shrieked !  But  for  that,  her  progress  was  sat- 
isfactorily noiseless.  She  felt  her  way  past  three 


NIGHT  149 

doors,  to  the  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  forgetting  till 
her  hand  struck  the  door  knob,  that  it  was  Julian's  sit- 
ting room,  and  that  he  must  be  in  the  room  she  had 
just  passed.  She  crept  back,  knelt,  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  the  door.  The  winged  creature  was  making 
a  fearful  commotion  now,  for  Julian  was  very  near. 
Perhaps  if  she  listened,  she  could  catch  the  sound  of 
his  breathing. 

For  the  first  few  seconds,  the  thumping  of  her  heart 
was  the  only  sound  in  her  ears;  then  the  whisper  of  her 
name  flashed  like  a  light  through  her  brain.  She  held 
her  breath,  incredulous ;  but  it  came  again,  questioning, 
and  "  Julian!  "  she  whispered  back. 

"  Is  there  any  trouble  ?  " 

.  .    XT  » 

"Then  what—?" 

"  I  had  to  come.     Night  is  so  lonely !  " 

Why  was  he  awake  himself?  It  occurred  to  her 
that  he  might  be  in  pain  —  more  than  usual  —  and  she 
shivered.  "  Can't  you  sleep  either  ?"  She  was  speak- 
ing almost  aloud,  forgetful  now  of  all  but  his  wel- 
fare. "  Perhaps  you  'd  sleep  if  some  one  were  sitting 
beside  you." 

There  was  no  answer.  Her  heart  beat  fast.  The 
silence  grew  so  long  at  last  that  she  thought  he  had 
not  heard.  "  Julian !  "  she  entreated,  "  Speak  to  me ! 
Mayn't  I  come  in?" 

Still  no  answer  nor  sound,  so  that  she  whispered 
his  name  again,  and  in  fear. 


150  ZANDRIE 


But  there  was  no  sign  that  he  had  heard,  until  a 
rustle  as  of  an  abrupt  decisive  movement,  perhaps  of 
an  arm ;  and  after  that,  "  No,"  he  said. 

"  But  Julian  — " 

"  Go  back  this  instant !  " 

"  Very  well."  And  she  meant  to  obey,  but  knelt 
there  still.  What  she  was  waiting  for  —  the  sound  of 
his  voice  again  —  soon  came,  and  quite  above  a  whis- 
per. "  Go  back  at  once,  and  quietly." 

But  yet  she  did  not  move.  "  You  're  not  angry  with 
me,  are  you?  "  she  asked  tremulously  at  the  key-hole. 

"  Yes,  if  you  don't  go." 

"  But  when  — " 

An  exclamation  interrupted  her,  unintelligible,  but 
emphatic.  "  You  must  go !  "  followed  it. 

As  she  rose  from  her  knees,  a  door  at  the  other 
end  of  the  hall  creaked,  and  a  head  was  thrust  out, 
too  fantastic  in  the  flickering  light  of  a  candle  to  be 
recognized  at  first.  Besides,  Julian's  voice,  low  but 
fiercely  distinct,  filled  her  attention.  "  Don't  speak 
again.  Obey  me." 

She  sighed  and  turned  from  the  door,  and  the  candle 
light  fell  full  upon  her.  The  person  holding  the  can- 
dle was  Mrs.  Smith. 

Mrs.  Smith's  smile  had  seemed  a  little  less  offen- 
sive at  supper,  so  that  after  it  Zandrie  had  confided 
to  her  the  comical  fact  of  her  having  no  night-dress, 
because  of  the  bundle  that  she  had  lost;  and  the 
friendly  little  person  had  lent  her  one.  In  fact,  she 


NIGHT.  151 

had  seemed  almost  too  friendly,  especially  about  ask- 
ing questions  that  one  would  really  rather  not  an- 
swer. But  now,  as  her  head  was  being  silently  with- 
drawn, Zandrie,  standing  with  her  hand  on  the  knob 
of  Julian's  door  and  looking  at  her  dreamily,  suddenly 
noted  the  total  absence  of  her  smile.  She  feared  that 
she  had  waked  her.  She  would  apologize  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

Back  in  her  room,  she  sat  again  on  the  floor  by  the 
window,  the  night  breeze  on  her  forehead,  and 
Julian's  voice  echoing  in  her  ears.  Why  he  had  been 
so  displeased  with  her,  who  could  say?  It  was  not 
because  she  had  disturbed  his  sleep,  for  he  had  evi- 
dently been  already  awake.  His  tones  the  last  time 
that  he  spoke,  were  stern  —  almost  harsh.  But  per- 
haps it  was  only  because  he  was  tired  of  pain. 

Gradually  the  fever  to  which  she  had  waked,  sank 
under  the  touch  of  the  coolness  of  the  night.  Some 
heavy  drops  of  rain  began  to  fall,  at  first  in  single 
thuds,  then  faster  until  they  were  a  host,  the  sane 
rhythm  of  whose  march  brought  her  peace.  She  went 
back  to  bed,  and  a  few  minutes  later  she  was  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   PASSING   OF   THE    NUNS 

Mrs.  Bright's  lamenting  voice  woke  her  at  seven 
with  the  announcement  that  Mr.  Furness  desired  her 
to  deliver  a  note  to  Miss  Donallon.  And  inasmuch  as 
notes  had  played  but  the  smallest  part  in  Miss  Donal- 
lon's  life,  she  pounced  upon  the  folded  bit  of  paper 
that  Mrs.  Bright  had  tucked  under  the  door,  in  a 
wonderful  excitement.  The  handwriting  was  eccen- 
tric to  the  verge  of  illegibility,  but  "  I  cannot  see  you," 
she  managed  to  decipher,  "  till  twelve :  fifteen  this 
noon.  Very  sorry.  If  you  go  out,  please  tell  Mrs. 
Bright.  I  beg  you  also  to  wear  your  hat ;  not  to  speak 
to  any  stranger,  man  or  woman ;  not  to  run ;  and  not  to 
get  lost.  Don't  go  out  of  sight  of  houses;  and  keep 
well  within  the  town.  I  would  rather  you  did  n't  go 
out  alone  at  all,  but  if  you  think  you  must,  be  very 
careful.  J.  M.  F." 

After  reading  this  autocratic  document  several 
times,  she  re-folded  it,  patted  it  defiantly,  kissed  it 
humbly,  bestowed  it  in  her  pocket,  and  went  down  to 
breakfast  at  last  in  the  astounding  determination  to 
go  out  only  in  the  company  of  Mrs.  Bright. 

152 


PASSING   OF    THE    NUNS       153 

As  she  had  taken  a  long  time  to  arrive  at  this  deci- 
sion, all  the  boarders  had  finished  breakfast  but  Mrs. 
Smith,  who  nodded  unsmilingly  and  bent  her  attention 
on  some  wicked-looking  coffee.  Her  hair  had  play- 
fully eluded  the  comb's  advances.  It  was  the  only 
hint  of  playfulness,  however,  about  her  person,  with 
the  possible  exception  of  the  bow  of  her  light  blue 
dressing  sacque.  Mrs.  Smith  was  plainly  not  at  ease ; 
nor  was  Zandrie  at  the  end  of  five  minutes.  Saints 
alive !  One  would  prefer  the  smile  to  this  its  succes- 
sor of  pursed  lips  and  abnormal  unconsciousness  of 
another's  presence.  "  Is  it  that  I  waked  you  ?  "  the 
poor  child  asked.  "  I  tried  to  be  quiet." 

Her  vis-a-vis  raised  her  eye-brows  and  bit  a  muffin ; 
and  the  two  acts  made  an  insult  that  smote  Zandrie 
speechless. 

The  woman  who  dealt  it  soon  folded  her  napkin. 
It  was  not  till  she  had  risen  to  go  that  she  met  Zan- 
drie's  eyes.  "  Well  ?  "  she  questioned,  with  an  un- 
translatable toss  of  the  head. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"Oh,  don't  you?"  and  Mrs.  Smith  turned  away 
exalting  her  nose  in  splendid  incredulity;  at  which, 
Zandrie  rose  quivering. 

"  Stop !  "  she  cried ;  and  then,  "  no  —  you  can  go. 
You  're  rude." 

"  Oh,  am  1 1 "  The  little  woman  flounced  about, 
glaring.  "  I  'm  rude,  am  I  ?  And  I  can  go !  Thank 
you,  ma'am;  so  kind,  I  'm  sure!  Only  if  I  was  you,  I 


154  ZANDRIE 


would  n't  have  much  to  say  to  people  as  try  to  show 
themselves  the  least  bit  friendly,  not  knowing  much  of 
anything  about  you.  I  guess  you  found  you  've  struck 
the  wrong  place  this  time,  did  n't  you  ?  Or  ain't  we  all 
the  kind  we  thought  we  was,  coming  here?  I  told 
Smith  at  the  time,  we  did  n't  make  enough  inquiries 
to  know  much  of  anything  about  it."  But  she  did  not 
wait  to  make  more  now. 

Naturally  this  assault  left  its  victim  without  a  hearty 
appetite.  She  could  discover  nothing  in1  Mrs.  Smith's 
behavior  and  words  but  frenzied  nonsense.  Were 
many  women  in  the  world  so  preposterously  irascible  ? 
—  or  mournful?  And  did  all  speak  bad  English? 
Anger,  bewilderment,  disgust,  trooped  with  her  up- 
stairs and  sat  down  with  her  there.  The  longing  to 
run  for  help  to  Julian  pulled  her  twice,  in  the  face 
of  his  commands,  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  twice 
she  turned  back.  But  suddenly  the  sun  came  out 
from  a  cloud,  and  the  willow  branches,  tipped  with 
drops  from  a  recent  shower,  turned  to  diamond  pen- 
dants. Sun-flecked  hills,  robins  all  but  bursting  with  a 
song  of  well-being  —  what  mortal  could  resist  their 
summons?  Even  if  Zandrie  had  remembered  Mrs. 
Bright,  it  seems  doubtful  whether  she  would  have 
asked  her  escort.  She  did  snatch  up  her  hat,  however. 

But  she  was  destined  not  to  run  far,  that  morning. 
In  fact,  a  desperate  collision  with  two  bodies  brought 
her  up  short  on  the  doorstep  itself,  where  she  was 
stopped,  not  only  by  their  unyielding  bulk,  but  by  four 


PASSING    OF    THE    NUNS       155 

hands  laid  upon  her  with  a  will.  She  found  herself 
gasping  on  the  shoulder  of  Sister  Gertrude.  Mother 
Genevieve  buttressed  her  on  the  left.  But  the  con- 
vulsive grip  of  the  two  nuns  was  not  needed  to  check 
farther  flight,  for  Zandrie  was  quite  limp  with  sur- 
prise. 

"  Holy  Virgin !  bind  her  fast !  "  Sister  Gertrude 
panted. 

"  I  've  got  her !  "  said  the  Prioress,  and  thanked  the 
saints  for  the  achievement. 

"  Had  we  better  take  her  in  here?  "  Sister  Gertrude 
asked,  surveying  the  door-casing  with  distrust. 

"  Is  there  any  suitable  room,"  the  Prioress  asked  of 
Zandrie,  "  where  we  can  be  sure  of  privacy  for  a  little 
while?" 

By  this  time  Zandrie  had  mustered  her  forces.  Ju- 
lian had  said  that  she  would  be  brave,  and  she  was 
going  to  justify  his  faith.  She  invited  them  into  the 
parlor  courteously.  "  You  need  n't  hold  me,"  she 
added  gently,  "  I  'm  not  trying  to  escape.  We  e:r- 
pected  you  to-day !  " 

Sister  Gertrude's  eye-brows  disappeared  under  the 
white  linen  band  across  her  forehead,  and  she  kept  her 
hold  until  sitting  down  in  the  parlor. 

Zandrie  still  spoke  politely ;  "  I  'm  sorry  you  don't 
trust  me." 

"  I  am  sorry  we  have  so  little  reason  to,"  and  the 
Mother  seated  herself  with  a  sigh,  signing  to  the  other 
nun  to  release  the  prisoner,  however. 


156  ZANDRIE 


"  You  are  tired,  Reverend  Mother,"  said  Sister 
Gertrude. 

"  I  am,"  she  assented. 

Sister  Gertrude,  sitting  bolt  upright  on  Mrs.  Bright's 
haircloth  sofa,  looked  about  furtively  through  her  very 
round  spectacles.  She  was  one  of  the  few  nuns  who 
had  been  at  St.  Scholastica's  for  over  ten  years  and 
yet  held  no  responsible  position  in  the  community. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Zandrie,  "  to  have  caused  you 
weariness." 

"  You  can  prove  it,"  and  the  Mother's  great,  eager 
eyes  challenged  her. 

"  The  Blessed  Virgin  never  leaves  us  without  a 
chance  to  retrieve — "  But  the  Superior  signed  to 
Sister  Gertrude  to  be  silent. 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  both  nuns  studied  the 
carpet  earnestly.  Then  the  Prioress  began  the  inquisi- 
tion. Zandrie's  conduct,  she  preluded,  was  quite  in- 
explicable —  not  to  say  more.  They  were  in  the  dark 

—  they  who  had  had  her  in  their  care,  a  sacred  trust 

—  and  an  explanation  was  their  first  due.     But  Zan- 
drie met  the  commanding  eyes  unflinchingly  and  in 
silence. 

"  Who  is  this  Mr.  Furness?  " 

"  The  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world."  The  blood 
rushed  to  her  cheeks ;  it  was  difficult,  for  some  reason, 
to  speak  of  Julian  to  these  good  but  uncompromising 
and  surely  uncomprehending  women,  who  were  even 


PASSING   OF   THE    NUNS       157 

now  exchanging  a  glance  that  implied  the  fulfillment 
of  some  evil  foreboding. 

"  The  young  man  who  was  received  among  us  years 
ago  and  given  our  care  ?  " 

"  He  has  ill  repaid  us,"  said  Sister  Gertrude ;  and 
at  that,  Zandrie's  well  drilled  battle-line  broke. 

"  He  made  a  gift  to  the  convent,"  she  flashed  out. 
"  You  've  forgotten  so  soon?  And  if  he  thought  he  'd 
left  a  tithe  of  his  debt  unpaid,  he  'd  give  his  last  — " 

"  Quietly,  my  dear,"  the  Mother  admonished. 

"  When  you  're  unjust  to  him  ?  I  '11  never  be  quiet 
and  let  that  be." 

This  brought  the  Mother's  eyes  upon  her  with  so 
searching  a  scrutiny  that  no  matter  how  much  against 
her  will,  she  was  discomfited  and  bent  her  head. 

"  He  is  married  of  course?  " 

"No.     Ono!" 

Another  pause.  And  then,  "  Alexandra,  look  me 
in  the  eye  and  explain  your  being  here !  " 

The  tone  of  this  challenge  was  so  appalling  in  its 
mysterious  implications  that  she  almost  lost  hold  of 
the  simplicity  of  the  true  explanation.  Instinct  told 
her  confusedly  that  its  very  simplicity  would  damn  it ; 
it  would  not  convince  these  inquisitors.  "  Where  else 
should  she  go  ?  "  she  faltered.  She  had  decided  to 
leave  the  convent ;  had  always  wanted  to ;  and  —  and 
he  was  the  only  friend  she  had  in  the  world  —  almost ; 
and  she  remembered  that  he  was  coming  here  to  live ; 


158  ZANDRIE 

and  so  she  had  sought  until  she  found  him.  O  very 
simple  indeed! 

"  Your  coming  was  a  surprise  to  him  ?  " 

"  O  yes !  a  wonderful  surprise ! "  and  she  met  the 
Mother's  eyes  with  a  smile  of  gleeful  reminiscence. 

"  The  telegram  implied  that,"  the  Prioress  mur- 
mured. "  Yes,  I  must  believe  that.  But  you  were  in 
communication  with  him  before  coming?  You  have 
heard  from  him  —  I  don't  know  how  it  was  possible, 
though  Father  Thomas  said  yesterday  that  the  boy, 
Ambrose,  once  met  you  entering  the  little  gate  as 
though  — " 

"  I  have  never  heard  from  him  or  about  him  — • 
never  a  word  —  since  his  aunt's  —  Mrs.  Wyndam's 
letter,  years  ago." 

The  Superior  questioned  her,  and  she  told  all  that 
she  remembered  of  the  letter. 

It  was  evident  that  in  Sister  Gertrude's  case,  at 
least,  curiosity  was  beginning  to  crowd  out  wrath. 
"  You  had  other  friends,"  she  suggested, — "  school 
friends?" 

"Yes  — a  few." 

"  Then  I  fail  wholly,"  said  Mother  Genevieve,  "  to 
understand." 

Though  the  silence  was  awkward,  Zandrie  did  not 
try  to  enlighten  her. 

"  Who  was  the  man  who  came  out  of  the  door  be- 
fore you  —  whom  you  were  running  after?"  Sister 
Gertrude  demanded. 


PASSING   OF    THE    NUNS       159 

"  I  don't  know.  I  did  n't  see.  Carter  perhaps,  or 
Mr.  Smith,  or  the  fat  man  who — " 

"  Who  are  Carter  and  Mr.  Smith?  " 

"  Two  of  the  other  men  in  the  house." 

"  Merciful  saints !  are  there  no  women?  " 

"  Yes,  I  'm  sorry  to  say." 

A  frightful  pause. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Furness  ?  "     This  from  the  Prioress. 

"  Upstairs."  She  sprang  to  her  feet.  "  Oh,  go  up 
to  him  and  talk  with  him !  You  '11  understand  better 
then.  I  '11  tell  him  to  let  you  come !  " 

"  Alexandra !  "  The  Mother  started  up,  for  Zan- 
drie  was  already  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "  Come 
back,  I  command  you !  What  is  he  that  we  should  — 
Find  a  servant  and  send  for  him.  It  is  proper  that 
he  should  come  to  us." 

Zandrie  wheeled  about.  "  You  don't  know  then  ? 
You  don't  know  that  he  is  —  that  he  sits  in  a  chair 
all  day?  that  he  can't  come  to  us?  Have  you  for- 
gotten, Sister  Gertrude?  You  helped  drag  away  the 
horse  when  it  fell  on  him  and  lay  dead  from  the  force 
of  its  fall." 

"  I  thought  he  had  nearly  recovered  when  he  left 
us." 

"  You  were  looking  to  your  own  soul."  Tears 
caught  her  voice.  "  I  saw  them  carry  him  out."  She 
held  out  her  hand  to  the  Prioress.  "  Come  with  me. 
When  you  see  him,  you  '11  understand  perhaps  —  why 
I  came." 


160  ZANDRIE 


"  You  mean  he  is  a  cripple?  " 

She  shivered  a  little,  for  that  word,  meaning  to  her 
something  so  forlorn,  so  pitiable,  so  different  from 
all  that  meant  Julian,  had  never  been  admitted  to  her 
inmost  thought  of  him.  "  I  did  n't  come  to  give  pity," 
she  said.  She  had  forgotten  so  soon,  then !  "  Come 
—  and  see." 

There  was  another  long  pause ;  then,  "  Dear  child," 
the  Mother  pleaded,  drawing  her  towards  her,  "  come 
with  us.  We  are  your  friends  too  —  better  perhaps 
than  the  friend  you  think  you  have  upstairs.  Because 
we  were  your  friends,  you  see,  we  came  here  —  a  long 
night's  journey.  You  must  see  that.  I  think  you 
must  understand  that,  and  come  without  —  Come 
quietly,  without  resistance,  and  we'll  all  forget  this, 
and—" 

"You  mean — "  Zandrie  pulled  her  hand  away 
and  stood  braced  for  the  contest  that  she  had  thought 
was  not  to  come  after  all.  "  You  mean  you  're  going 
to  try  to  get  me  back  ?  " 

The  other  straightened  too.  "  To  get  you  back  ? 
But  that  went  without  saying.  You  are  coming  back 
with  us  to-morrow.  Come  willingly,  without  ado,  and 
we  shall  not  have  to  compel  — " 

"  Compel !  Never !  Ah !  but  I  thought  you  almost 
understood  at  last  —  were  almost  kind."  She  leaned 
against  the  door,  her  hands  clasped  against  her 
throat. 

The  Superior  reasoned  patiently.     "  We  are  respon- 


PASSING   OF    THE    NUNS       161 

sible  for  you,  body  and  soul,"  she  ended.  "  The 
Blessed  Virgin  will  bear  us  witness  that  we  've  tried 
to  do  our  duty,  and  our  duty  now  is  to  take  you  back 
—  at  least  till  you  are  older." 

There  was  a  quiet  authority  in  the  tones  that  for  a 
second  all  but  dismayed  Zandrie.  "  Oh,  is  there  a 
woman  in  the  world  that  will  understand  ?  "  she  cried ; 
and  then,  "  Yes  —  he  said  you  would  know  it  for  your 
duty.  But  oh!  you  were  mistaken!  And  I  will  not 
go  back.  Where  I  starved?  And  I  came  away  and 
found  the  free  air  and  the  dear  life  in  the  world ! 
I  'm  free !  free !  God  bear  me  witness,  I  was  unhappy 
always  —  always!  I  hated  your  ways.  I  hated  the 
life  that  was  no  life  at  all.  While  you  sang  your 
offices,  I  thought  of  high  God  and  his  blessed  Mother. 
My  brain  thought  and  thought.  It  was  n't  afraid. 
And  this  I  know  —  take  my  body  to  shut  away  by 
force,  if  you  can  —  but  for  my  soul,  it's  mine,  not 
yours,  to  lose  or  keep.  Wait ! "  She  put  out  her 
hand.  "  Stand  where  you  are !  I  dare  to  call  on  God 
himself  and  vow  to  him  —  to  God  himself  and  the 
dear  Virgin  too  —  I  vow  before  you  both,  that  if  you 
force  me  back,  I  will  kill  myself." 

The  Mother's  hand  shot  out.  "  Stop !  I  for- 
bid — " 

"  Too  late !  I  've  made  my  vow ;  and  you  know  I  '11 
keep  it." 

"  O  Mother  of  Heaven !  what  to  do  with  her !  " 

exclaimed  Sister  Gertrude. 
11 


1 62  ZANDRIE 


She  had  risen  in  her  dismay,  clutching  the  crucifix 
of  her  rosary. 

Zandrie's  words,  spoken  on  an  impulse  that  was 
very  sudden  even  for  her,  startled  herself,  yet  did  not 
frighten  as  much  as  the  danger  that  had  seemed  to 
drive  her  upon  them. 

"  She  is  wicked,"  said  Sister  Gertrude.  "  She  was 
a  strange,  unruly  child." 

Zandrie  turned  on  her.  "  You  believe  me.  You  've 
been  in  the  convent  longer  than  Mother  Genevieve; 
you  know  I  keep  my  word.  Look  at  me,  Reverend 
Mother,  and  believe  me  too." 

The  Prioress  looked  at  her,  dismayed  not  at  all. 
"  Foolish  child !  Yes,  and  wicked,  as  Sister  Gertrude 
said." 

"  I  've  made  my  vow." 

"  A  foolish  vow.     No  vow  at  all." 

"I  spoke  it  to  God  himself!" 

"  Holy  Mother !  "  Sister  Gertrude  crossed  herself. 
"  The  Devil  is  speaking  through  her.  She  blas- 
phemes !  " 

"  To  kill  oneself  is  a  crime,"  said  the  Mother. 
"  There  is  no  salvation  for  those  —  You  think  you 
would  chose  eternal  Hell  sooner  than  — " 

"  It  would  be  your  own  crime,  if  you  forced  me  to 
it.  For  eternal  Hell  —  send  me  there !  God  will  un- 
derstand. But  you  won't  try  to  force  me."  She  spoke 
as  with  conviction,  not  pleading. 


PASSING   OF   THE    NUNS       163 

Mother  Genevieve  flushed,  and  after  a  pause  turned 
to  Sister  Gertrude.  "  It  is  the  Evil  One  himself  that 
tempts  me  to  leave  her  here." 

The  Sister  nodded  and  blinked.  "  She  was  always 
lawless,  always  without  reverence  for  any  holy  thing. 
She  refused  confirmation.  Her  soul  is  past  reclaim- 
ing." 

After  the  high- water  mark  of  her  effort  had  been 
reached  and  she  had  caught  a  glimpse,  as  she  thought, 
of  victory's  sail  above  her  horizon,  Zandrie's  bodily 
strength  had  begun  to  ooze  away  so  that  she  must 
lean  against  the  door  to  keep  from  trembling;  but  she 
drew  herself  up  once  more.  "  Who  are  you  to  look 
to  my  soul  ?  That 's  between  God  and  me,  I  told  you. 
I  'm  not  a  Catholic !  I  refused  confirmation  because  I 
promised  my  father  not  to  be  a  Catholic  ever;  and  I 
keep  my  promises.  Why  should  you  want  me  back 
where  I  troubled  you  always  ?  Let  me  alone,  and  I  '11 
never  trouble  you  again.  Leave  me,  and  I  —  could 
almost  love  you.  Oh,  it 's  all  so  simple !  "  Her  voice 
broke.  She  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  pleading 
at  last. 

Sister  Gertrude  began  to  murmur  her  beads. 

"  Are  you  planning  to  marry  this  man  ?  "  the  Pri- 
oress asked. 

"  No !  "  said  Zandrie,  startled.  "  At  least  —  no,  I 
don't  think  so." 

"  He  has  n't  asked  you  to?  " 


1 64  ZANDRIE 


"No  — I  don't  think  so." 

The  eyes  of  both  women  were  upon  her,  incred- 
ulous, astonished. 

"  You  don't  wish  to  stay,  then,  in  order  to  be  with 
him  —  near  him  ?  " 

The  answer  came  hard ;  "  Yes." 

"No  delicacy  even!  No  sense  of  propriety!  "  Sis- 
ter Gertrude  burst  out. 

"  When  he  does  n't  want  you !  "  the  Mother  ex- 
claimed. 

"  He  does  want  me.  He  's  lonely  —  alone  with 
pain.  He  was  glad  that  I  came."  Her  voice  fell. 

"  We  will  see  him,"  the  Prioress  said  at  last. 

A  few  seconds  later,  Zandrie  was  at  his  door,  burst- 
ing in  before  his  permission  was  half  out.  Carter 
was  with  him,  but  never  mind  that !  "  They  're  down 
stairs !  "  she  cried,  " —  the  nuns !  And  I  think  I  've 
won ;  but  they  want  to  talk  with  you.  And  I  Ve  sol- 
emnly vowed  to  kill  myself  if  they  take  me  back!  " 

Carter  was  summarily  dismissed.  Then,  "  That 
was  naughty,"  said  Julian. 

"  Yes  indeed !  but  I  meant  it,  and  I  always  keep  my 
vows."  She  spoke  ruefully,  for  the  suggestion  of  even 
remote  death  was  unpleasant  now  that  Julian's  smile 
was  upon  her.  "  But  they  won't  force  me  back,"  she 
added,  brightening.  "  Remember  your  promise." 

He  stared  out  of  the  window  for  a  full  minute  be- 
fore speaking.  "  I  remember.  And  I  've  thought  of 
a  possible  way  —  just  possible;  but  don't  get  your 


PASSING   OF   THE    NUNS       165 

hopes  up  too  high.  I  '11  talk  with  them  anyhow.  '  And 
in  that  day  seven  women  shall  lay  hold  of  one  man.' 
Has  the  whole  sisterhood  turned  out  ?  " 

Sister  Gertrude,  as  she  passed  the  hall  mirror  to  go 
up  stairs  in  her  Superior's  wake,  looked  into  it  and 
adjusted  her  veil. 

As  for  Zandrie,  the  half  hour  that  followed  was 
one  of  exceeding  unrest,  for  he  had  ordered  her  to 
wait  down  stairs  until  summoned.  Inarticulate  scraps 
of  the  interview  above  floated  within  reach  of  her 
ears :  there  seemed  to  be  many  and  long  pauses.  Once 
a  tidal-wave  of  impatience  bore  her  out  to  the  door- 
step, where  the  sun  beat  on  her  head  already  too  hot; 
and  then  the  whistles  screamed  the  news  that  it  was 
noon,  and  she  fled  back  to  Mrs.  Bright's  dark  parlor. 
Julian,  if  he  took  her  part  with  a  will,  would  probably 
win  the  nuns'  consent  to  his  plan,  whatever  that  might 
be;  yet  when  Sister  Gertrude  summoned  her,  she 
mounted  the  stairs  with  a  fast  beating  heart,  at  each 
step  calling  upon  defiance. 

The  nuns  sat  side  by  side  on  his  couch.  He  him- 
self leaned  back  in  his  chair,  his  arms  folded  and  head 
thrown  back ;  but  he  looked  at  the  mantelpiece  only  and 
little  comfort  could  she  read  in  the  lines  of  his  profile. 
The  Prioress  motioned  her  to  sit  by  her  side,  and, 
when  she  had  obeyed,  took  her  hand.  "  Dear  child, 
you  have  of  course  been  considering,  in  the  first  place, 
the  foolish  wickedness  of  that  vow,  as  you  called  it." 

This  struck  so  near  the  truth  that  Zandrie  had  to 


166  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


make  a  mighty  show  of  defiance  and  draw  away  her 
hand ;  but  Julian's  eyes  suddenly  meeting  hers  seemed 
to  say  "  Patience !  "  so  she  yielded  it  up  again. 

"  You  Ve  had  time  to  consider  several  things,"  the 
Prioress  went  on. 

"  A  vow  is  a  vow/'  said  Zandrie,  "  in  the  world  at 
least." 

"  We  consider  your  hasty,  unthinking  words  not  a 
vow.  Understand  that,  and  that  it  is  in  no  wise  be- 
cause of  them  that  we  may  possibly  choose  not  to  com- 
pel you  to  return  with  us.  But  Mr.  Furness  adds  his 
request  —  his  request  —  to  ours,  that  you  come  back 
to  the  Priory  to  stay  at  least  a  year  or  two  longer ! " 

Zandrie  looked  to  him,  but  what  she  could  see  of 
his  face  gave  not  a  quiver  of  response.  Then  her 
glance  wandered  to  the  table  that  she  had  dusted,  and 
the  sight  of  one  rusty  book  opened  a  flood-gate  of 
memories  —  the  contest  that  he  had  somehow  won,  her 
kiss,  and  the  moonlit  night  with  its  ecstacy  and  im- 
perious longing.  Leave  him?  Even  yesterday  that 
might  have  been  possible,  but  now  — "  I  will  not  go 
back,"  she  said,  very  low. 

"  Mr.  Furness  requests  it,"  Sister  Gertrude  re- 
minded. 

"  For  a  year  or  two  only,"  the  Mother  repeated. 
"  Take  time  to  consider." 

A  year  or  two  only,  when  one-half  hour  could  hold 
most  of  eternity !  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  "  O  no, 


PASSING   OF   THE    NUNS       167 

no !  "  Then,  "  Help  me,  Julian !  You  have  n't  said  a 
word." 

At  this  he  turned  to  the  nuns.  "  Why  not  speak 
now  to  the  point  ?  " 

The  Mother  withdrew  her  hand. 

"  There 's  nothing  human  in  her,"  said  Sister 
Gertrude.  "  She  is  deaf  to  the  wishes  of  those  she 
calls  her  best  friends.  Mr.  Furness  requests  — " 

Unnerved  and  trembling,  Zandrie  rose  with  an  im- 
pulse to  run  away  —  to  run  from  Julian  himself  and 
from  an  exasperating  scene  that  gave  no  sign  of  end- 
ing. But  he  caught  her  hand. 

"  Let  me  go !  "  she  cried,  "  I  hate  you  all !  "  The 
tears  brimmed  over. 

"  Sit  here  by  me,"  and  he  drew  her  down  to  the 
little  stool  she  loved.  She  allowed  him  to  although 
he  spoke  as  to  a  child.  "  It 's  going  to  be  all  right. 
They  won't  ask  you  again  to  go  back.  With  the  nuns' 
permission,  I  '11  tell  you  now  what  we  've  been  talking 
about.  I  have  two  good  friends  in  town  —  the 
Lyndes.  Mrs.  Lynde  was  my  aunt's  best  friend.  And 
I  '11  ask  her  to  come  this  afternoon ;  and  I  think  she  '11 
take  you  home  with  her  for  a  few  days  at  least,  if  she 
has  n't  other  visitors,  while  we  see  what  can  be  done 
—  what  other  home  we  can  find  for  you." 

"  Some  home  —  away  from  here  ?  " 

He  smoothed  the  hair  back  from  her  forehead. 
"Why  do  the  tears  still  come?  The  convent  is  past 


1 68  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


—  in  all  probability.     You  're  to  be  free  in  earnest,  if 
we  can  find  some  work  —  some  means  of  support  for 
you;  and  we  can,  without  doubt." 

"  You  mean,  a  home  not  here  —  away  from  this 
house?" 

"  Yes.     Of  course!     What  of  that?  " 

"  I  want  to  stay  here." 

Sister  Gertrude's  hands  flew  up.  Julian  spoke 
gently ;  "  You  '11  not  make  trouble  about  this.  You 
can't  stay  here.  If  Mrs.  Lynde  can  keep  you  for  a 
while  and  help  you  find  something  to  do,  you  can  come 
here  sometimes,  if  you  care  to.  Go  with  her  quietly, 
and  everything  will  probably  go  well.  If  not  —  But  I 
have  faith  in  you.  Free  from  the  convent  and  unhap- 
piness,  you  '11  be  yourself  —  reasonable  —  and  take  the 
word  of  people  who  are  your  friends  and  old  enough 
to  know  what 's  best  in  worldly  matters  at  least.  Mrs. 
Lynde  will  be  a  good  friend,  I  reckon,  and  she  '11  help 
find  others  for  you,  and  a  home  somewhere  —  in  the 
world!  And  then  you  '11  come  and  tell  your  old 
friend  Julian  about  it  ?  " 

But  she  could  only  hide  her  face  against  the  arm 
of  his  chair. 

His  hand  was  on  her  shoulder.  "  There,  there,  lit- 
tle sister !  You  must  be  right  tired.  I  '11  send  the 
note  right  off  to  Mrs.  Lynde.  Reverend  Mother  and 
Sister  Gertrude  are  going  to  stay  in  town  over  night 
just  to  see  her.  I  'm  right  sure  you  '11  be  at  her  house 

—  in  a  real  home  —  this  very  evening." 


PASSING    OF    THE    NUNS       169 

"  O  you  're  beautiful!  "  And  it  was  probably  well 
for  Zandrie  that  as  she  whispered  this,  her  back  was 
to  the  nuns  and  Julian  himself  was  looking  in  their 
direction. 

They  were  rising  to  go  and  she  was  fain  to  go  with 
them,  leaving  Mr.  Furness  to  his  much  interrupted 
work. 

"  Whom  the  Lord  loveth,  he  chasteneth,"  Mother 
Genevieve  mused  at  Mrs.  Bright's  dining  table,  where 
the  landlady  had  consented  to  give  them  a  dinner 
in  privacy  after  her  boarders'  regular  meal. 

"  Sister  Loyola  reported  his  sometimes  swearing."' 
Sister  Gertrude  recalled  the  fact  in  a  non-committal 
voice. 

"  And  I  'm  happy  to  say,"  said  Zandrie,  "  that  he 
swears  still." 

Whereupon,  a  pause  with  which  the  chapter  had  bet- 
ter end. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   LYNDES   AND   A   DOCTOR 

That  evening,  even  as  Julian  had  predicted,  Zandrie 
dined  in  a  home, —  no  less  delightful  for  being  the 
home  of  some  one  else  than  herself.  And  besides, 
Mrs.  Lynde  had  shown  her  a  room  with  flowered  paper 
and  said  "  This  is  yours,"  instead,  for  instance,  of 
"  Here  you  may  sleep  to-night."  And  now  she  sat  at 
a  table  set  for  three  —  a  dainty  thing  of  gleaming  ma- 
hogany, furnished  with  silver  and  rosebud  china  that 
felt  terrifyingly  frail  after  the  crockery  of  the  con- 
vent and  Mrs.  Bright's. 

The  chair  opposite  Mrs.  Lynde  was  empty ;  her  hus- 
band had  not  yet  come  down  stairs,  "  because,"  she 
said,  "  he  smelt  of  sulphur ;  and  besides,  he  'd  dipped 
his  cuff  into  a  bright  green  liquid.  Third  coat  ruined 
in  five  weeks.  So  I  'm  going  to  patch  the  remains  to- 
gether into  an  overcoat.  He  's  neck-deep  in  a  great 
chemical  experiment  —  which  I  only  hope  will  ruin 
nothing  but  coats.  The  other  day  he  forgot  he  was 
married,  though  he  won't  own  up  to  having  forgotten 
more  —  or  less  —  than  dinner.  But  I  know  him !  — 
a  terrible  man  enough  without  chemical  accessories  to 
his  clothes.  Don't  be  dismayed,  dear,  by  his  stentorian 

170 


THE  LYNDES  AND  A  DOCTOR  171 

and  incessant  voice,  or  fierce  glance.  He  means  to 
be  harmless,  and  I  've  got  him  pretty  well  under  con- 
trol." 

Imagination  filled  the  vacant  chair  with  a  form  so 
bristling  and  sulphurous  that  Zandrie  wondered  how 
any  one  had  consented  to  live  with  it.  In  fact,  she 
asked  her  hostess;  and  as  the  latter  dropped  her  fork 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  it  seemed  probable  that 
her  feelings  were  hurt.  "  I  don't  know  "  she  mur- 
mured before  Zandrie  could  think  of  an  apology. 
"Ask  him!" 

"  Me  ?  "  questioned  a  placid  voice. 

Zandrie  turned  and  met  the  brown,  far-apart  eyes 
of  a  little,  round-faced  man  who  held  out  his  hand  as 
though  he  knew  her. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  stealing  in  the  back  way  ?  " 
Mrs.  Lynde  demanded,  as  he  took  the  empty  chair. 

"  Clothes-line.  Obnoxious  coat,"  he  murmured, 
looking  at  Zandrie  kindly,  but  perhaps  only  because 
he  looked  at  most  persons  kindly,  for  his  thoughts  were 
manifestly  on  the  purifying  virtue  of  clothes-lines. 

"  He  is  n't  disagreeable !  "  Zandrie  exclaimed.  "  I 
thought  you  were  in  earnest  —  silly  me !  " 

"  No,"  her  hostess  admitted.  "  He  's  not  disagree- 
able —  now.  And  he  's  always  good.  He  married, 
one  day,  in  a  fit  of  abstraction,  and  woke  up  to  find  it 
was  me ;  but  he  's  stood  by  me  as  though  he  'd  meant 
it  from  the  first." 

One  could  almost  see  Mr.  Lynde's  thoughts  focus 


172  ZANDRIE 


themselves  on  his  wife's  face,  slowly  but  with  delight. 
And  it  was  a  charming  face,  whose  play  of  expression 
and  readiness  to  flicker  with  a  smile  made  a  curious 
contrast  with  the  serenity  of  his.  Yet  for  Zandrie  the 
comparison  ended  in  his  favor,  perhaps  because  the  far- 
apart  eyes  gave  comfortable  assurance  that  his  moves 
might  sometimes  be  predicted;  for  she  was  weary  al- 
ready of  bewilderment. 

The  placid  voice  stole  into  her  reflections.  "  My 
wife  considers  me  absent-minded." 

"O  no,  dear!"  said  his  wife.  "But  he  has  an 
astral  body  in  which  he  goes  on  a  jaunt  as  soon  as 
he  's  seated  this  show  body  somewhere  to  keep  up  do- 
mestic appearances;  sets  it  to  holding  a  book,  for 
instance.  At  which  times  you  shout  and  apply  the 
poker  in  vain.  .  .  .  Will  you  pass  him  this  plate  ? 
It 's  the  waitress'  afternoon  out,  and  the  cook  is  shy. 
Josiah  dear,  please  help  us  both  to  that  salad." 

He  begged  pardon  gallantly,  his  astral  body  having 
left  courtesy  at  least  behind.  "  My  wife  tells  me 
you  're  the  little  convent  friend  of  Julian  Furness,"  he 
said ;  and  for  some  reason  Zandrie  dropped  the  cracker 
she  was  about  to  bite,  and  said  nothing  but  "  yes." 

"  He  was  afraid  you  might  have  to  stay  a  long 
time  at  the  convent,  and  asked  if  we  could  suggest 
any  way  to  get  you  out.  You  showed  fine  spirit  in 
stepping  out  yourself." 

"  I  wanted  air,  and  the  whole  world  to  work  in !  " 

What  especially  did  she  want  to  do  in  it?     Mrs. 


THE  LYNDES  AND  A  DOCTOR  173 

Lynde  asked  gravely,  though  a  dimple  danced  under 
her  left  eye. 

But  Zandrie  found  it  impossible  to  tell  even  these 
friendly  persons  that  she  wanted  first  of  all  to  make 
Julian's  life  less  grim.  "  I  must  begin  to  look  for  my 
work  to-morrow,"  she  said. 

The  Lyndes  talked  of  Julian,  and  of  his  cousins,  the 
Wyndam  twins,  who  had  been  his  wards  since  their 
mother's  death.  They  were  now  at  boarding  school, 
and  spent  their  summers  with  their  grandmother 
Wyndam  at  one  of  the  Maine  harbors. 

"  I  don't  see  that  he  's  much  of  a  guardian,"  said 
Zandrie. 

"  Oh,  a  model !  The  twins  approve  of  him  entirely. 
And  really,  you  know,  if  he  were  n't  so  awfully  much 
of  the  opposite,  he  'd  be  a  saint.  As  it  is,  he  's  merely 
heroic  and  moody.  But  I  like  his  looks  —  or  used  to 
when  there  was  more  of  his  aunt  in  his  face  —  he  was 
rather  a  beauty  once !  but  now  .  .  .  Well,  he  likes 
my  jokes  and  we  're  good  enough  friends  though  he 
knows  I  like  hurdy-gurdies  better  than  the  Kneisel 
Quartet.  He  visits  us  for  a  month  every  summer  at 
our  shore  house,  you  know." 

"  I  like  him,"  said  Mr.  Lynde,  whom  Zandrie  liked 
henceforth. 

After  supper  they  sat  by  a  wood  fire  in  the  library, 
where  to  her  happy  eyes,  books,  pictures,  and  flame 
were  at  first  a  blur  of  dream  beauty.  Over  the  fire- 
place hung  a  photograph  of  a  naked  mountain  peak 


174  ZANDRIE 


towering  out  of  clouds  into  a  pale  sky  —  surely  a  cap- 
tured dream!  She  laughed  with  delight. 

Mrs.  Lynde  rose  soon.  She  gave  an  impression  of 
not  sitting  very  long  anywhere.  "  Come,  dear  Jo. 
Those  convent  ladies  will  be  up  on  their  ear  if  we  're 
late.  Remember  where  I  said  we  were  going?  —  but 
of  course  you  don't !  —  to  the  orphan  asylum  to  tease 
some  nuns  ?  "  She  put  an  arm  about  Zandrie.  "  We 
hope  to  begin  to  settle  matters  so  that  you  may  be  quit 
of  nuns  forever.  You  won't  mind  staying  alone  for 
an  hour  ?  " 

"  I  'm  used  to  being  alone,"  she  answered.  "  Be- 
sides, in  this  wonderful  room  .  .  ." 

Her  glance  had  fallen  on  a  miniature  of  a  young 
girl  with  fair  hair  and  very  blue  eyes. 

"  I  know  why  that  startles  you,"  Mrs.  Lynde  said. 
"  You  recognize  the  family  likeness." 

"His  aunt?" 

"Of  course.  Miss  Emily  Marshall  a  month  before 
her  marriage.  The  twins  have  the  original  miniature ; 
that 's  only  a  copy,  but  it 's  good.  Queer  resemblance 
—  feminine  edition  —  to  what  Julian  used  to  look  like, 
is  n't  it.  Too  bad  he  had  to  grow  at  all  like  his 
father.  Remember  that  appalling  creature,  Jo?  — 
how  I  had  to  dance  to  limber  my  spirits  after  meeting 
him  ?  He  brought  Julian  to  visit  Emily  Wyndam,  oh, 
years  ago !  —  fifteen  at  least  —  and  shook  hands  with 
me  —  me!  —  as  though  afraid  of  encouraging  false 
hopes  —  positively  as  though  afraid  of  being  sued  for 


THE  LYNDES  AND  A  DOCTOR  175 

breach  of  promise.  Keep  track  of  yourself,  Jo  dear, 
till  I  get  my  hat." 

After  their  departure  Zandrie  stood  before  the  min- 
iature, talking  to  it  aloud  but  so  confidentially  that,  at 
the  sound  of  some  one  entering  the  room,  she  wheeled 
about,  not  a  little  discomfited. 

It  was  a  man,  of  Julian's  age  perhaps,  with  a  high 
color,  a  brown  beard,  and  eyes  that  met  hers  not  at 
all  abashed  while  he  apologized  for  his  intrusion.  He 
turned  back  to  leave  his  hat  and  a  doctor's  case  in 
the  hall.  Might  he  come  in  and  wait  for  the  Lyndes  ? 
he  asked,  re-entering  cheerfully.  The  maid  had  not 
told  him  they  had  a  visitor,  he  said,  or  he  would  n't 
have  come  in-  so  unceremoniously.  He  was  passing 
through  town,  and  having  a  forty-five  minute  connec- 
tion, ran  up  to  call  here. 

"  Are  you  their  doctor  ?  " 

"No;  their  friend."  He  enjoyed  his  joke  prodi- 
giously. "  Royce,  by  name.  Some  other  people's 
doctor." 

Had  he  shown  embarrassment,  she  might  have 
known  better  what  to  do  with  him;  but  the  very  ease 
which  assumed  that  she  was  as  much  at  home  in  this 
complicated  world  as  himself,  destroyed  her  own. 
Something,  at  least,  destroyed  it. 

As  he  was  standing  with  an  arm  on  the  mantel-shelf, 
she  asked  him  to  sit  down. 

"Thank  you.     Will  you?" 

"  I  'd  rather  stand." 


176  ZANDRIE 


He  gave  her  a  quick  glance  —  of  amusement?  — 
and  continued  to  stand.  No  one  had  succeeded  so 
well  in  making  her  feel  her  ignorance  of  worldly  ways ; 
he  was  so  plainly  master  of  a  code  of  which  she  knew 
nothing;  and  he  seemed  somehow  aware  of  the  fact. 
From  flames  of  embarrassment,  anger  leapt  up,  soon 
however  to  turn  against  herself.  "  Little  fool !  "  she 
told  herself,  "  he  's  only  a  man."  And  then,  as  though 
this  thought  were  heartening,  she  said,  "  I  wish  you 
would  sit  down.  If  you  're  a  doctor,  you  must  be 
tired." 

"  You  flatter  me ! "  But  there  was  no  ridicule  in 
his  laugh,  after  all.  "  I  '11  be  glad  to  sit  down,  just 
the  same  —  after  you." 

That  reminded  her  of  Julian's  remark  about  hating 
to  keep  his  seat  while  a  lady  stood:  If  she  were  a 
prioress,  such  scruples  would  be  intelligible ;  but  for  a 
full-grown  man  to  treat  her  with  such  deference 
.  .  .  !  It  was  rather  delightful,  however. 

When  she  had  sat  down  close  to  the  hearth,  "  Per- 
haps you  '11  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  whom  I  'm  speak- 
ing to  ?  "  the  doctor  suggested. 

She  gave  him  her  full  name,  for  which  he  thanked 
her;  and  then  he  begged  pardon  very  graciously  for 
consulting  his  watch.  "  Sixteen  minutes'  grace.  I  'm 
afraid  I  '11  miss  the  Lyndes  if  they  're  making  a  call?  " 

She  told  him  they  were  at  the  orphan  asylum. 

"  A  little  out  of  their  usual  beat !  They  're  not  go- 
ing to  adopt  an  orphan?  " 


THE  LYNDES  AND  A  DOCTOR  177 

"  Only  me,"  she  said,  "  and  for  only  a  little  while 
.  .  .  I  've  run  away  from  a  convent  in  Maryland, 
you  see,  and  the  nuns  have  come  to  recapture  me,  but 
are  going  back  empty-handed  and  full  of  wrath." 

Dr.  Royce's  eyes  were  so  round  that  she  had  to 
laugh.  Naturally,  he  asked  for  fuller  information; 
and  what  she  gave  held  his  undivided  attention.  "  And 
then,"  she  ended,  "  I  came  north  to  find  .  .  .  some 
friends.  And  the  nuns  came  after  me  to  do  their 
duty;  but  I  vowed  to  kill  myself  if  they  forced  me 
back." 

It  is  plain  that  her  explanation,  though  detailed  in 
spots,  was  not  quite  complete.  She  had  not  mentioned 
Julian,  for  instance. 

"  So  you  see,"  she  added,  "  why  I  did  n't  know 
what  to  do  with  you  when  you  came  in  —  I  know  so 
little  about  what  people  do  in  the  world.  And  I  don't 
know  now  why  you  would  n't  sit  down  till  after  me, 
though  you  're  so  much  older." 

He  regarded  her  with  undisguised  delight. 
"  Good !  "  he  exclaimed  in  an  undertone.  "  It 's 
dramatic  —  the  whole  thing.  But  .  .  .  O  pshaw ! 
-  time  's  up !  It  always  is  up  —  even  for  young 
doctors  —  just  when  the  fun  's  beginning.  Glad  to 
have  met  you,  Miss  Donallon.  That 's  what  people 
usually  say  in  the  world,  you  know,  only  not  often  so 
sincerely.  Please  tell  the  Lyndes  I  'm  sorry  .  .  . 
Hope  to  be  here  again  soon,  and  .  .  .  Good 
night !  Good  luck  in  the  world !  " 

12 


1 78  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


His  exit  was  as  a  whirlwind's. 

She  lay  back,  watching  a  flame  that  danced  fairily 
on  the  embers.  Truly  the  world  was  full  of  inter- 
esting things  —  which  she  began  to  count  over  in 
drowsy  enjoyment.  There  was  Julian;  and  there  were 
hill-tops;  and  mercurial  young  doctors  with  amused 
eyes;  and  rosebud  china,  and  miniatures,  and  babies, 
and  little  turkeys  —  and  miniatures  .  .  .  and  Ju- 
lian .  .  .  The  list  stretched  from  Mrs.  Bright's 
to  the  Lawson  farm  —  for  Lawson  was  her  name,  the 
farmer's  wife  had  said  —  and  how  could  one  count 
with  somebody  interrupting  so  ? 

It  was  Mrs.  Lynde's  voice,  and  Zandrie  woke. 

"  Excellent  ladies !  "  her  hostess  was  saying.  "  But 
we  hope  you  '11  like  us  better.  The  Prioress  is  rather 
splendid  though."  She  took  Zandrie's  face  between 
her  hands.  "  Poor  bird,  you  've  been  asleep.  Well, 
sleep  soundly  to-night,  for  you  're  not  going  back  to 
the  convent.  I  want  you  here  instead,  for  the  present ; 
and  after  that —  But  why  think  of  'afters'?  I 
never  do.  The  nuns  will  send  your  worldly  goods  in  a 
few  days.  Meanwhile  I  can  lend  you  things.  Come, 
dear,  to  bed." 

Zandrie  kissed  the  cordial  lady's  hands.  Words  of 
affection  always  opened  the  gates  of  Paradise  wide 
enough  to  dazzle  her. 

"  A  rather  intense  person,"  Mrs.  Lynde  observed  to 
her  husband. 

Without  question,  she  was. 


THE  LYNDES  AND  A  DOCTOR  179 

It  was  not  till  the  next  day  that  she  remembered 
to  tell  of  the  doctor's  call.  "  A  very  dark,  homely 
man.  At  least,  not  exactly  homely;  but  I  hate  brown 
beards  and  — " —  she  saved  herself  from  adding  "  dark 
eyes,"  remembering  that  her  hostess'  eyes  were  brown 
and  not  utterly  displeasing.  Blue  were  to  be  pre- 
ferred, however,  even  when  their  blue  fire  would  burn 
into  one's  heart,  eating  up  alike  its  petty  troubles  and 
its  peace,  transmuting  stolid  contentments  to  a  white 
rapture  that  left  one  dry-lipped  and  wide-eyed  to 
search  the  night  for  its  sleep.  Well  might  one  ask 
what  had  "  happened." 

But  she  was  an  intense  person,  without  doubt. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AN    AGREEMENT 

In  the  morning  Zandrie  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed 
and  delivered  herself  a  heavy  sermon  under  two  heads ; 
submission  and  patience.  This  very  day  she  would  be- 
gin to  seek  advice  and  give  heed,  for  Julian  was  right ; 
during  the  first  few  days  in  the  unexplored  world, 
obedience  had  decidedly  better  be  her  watchword.  Be- 
fore she  had  pushed  this  train  of  reflection  much  far- 
ther however,  a  wave  of  impatience  swept  her  to  her 
feet.  After  all,  her  chief  concern  for  the  present  must 
be  with  Julian  himself;  he  was  so  lonely. 

At  breakfast,  which  she  had  alone  with  her  hostess, 
Mr.  Lynde  having  finished  and  gone  to  his  laboratory, 
she  announced  her  intention  of  going  to  see  Julian 
within  the  next  half  hour;  "  and  with  his  permission," 
she  said,  "  I  shall  read  a  novel.  And  for  the  rest  — 
well,  I  '11  have  to  find  out." 

"  The  rest  ?  "  Mrs.  Lynde  questioned. 

"  My  work  in  the  world.  I  don't  know  yet  what  it 
is,  but  it 's  waiting  for  me  somewhere."  This  com- 
fortable idea  had  been  suggested  by  the  Rev.  George 

1 80 


AN    AGREEMENT  181 

Deming.  "  I  think  I  'd  better  be  starting  now,"  she 
added,  folding  her  napkin. 

"  On  your  work  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  To  see  Julian." 

"  But  my  dear  little  hurricane,  it 's  only  nine." 

"What  of  that?" 

"  He  is  n't  expecting  callers  yet." 

"  He  begins  work  at  nine." 

"  Then  he  ought  n't  to  be  interrupted  so  soon." 

These  flippant  objections  were  irritating  enough,  but 
the  next,  that  she  did  not  know  the  way  and  must  not 
go  alone,  was  absurd  —  she  who  had  done  nothing  but 
find  her  way  since  leaving  the  convent !  It  rather  sa- 
vored of  the  convent. 

"Wait  half  an  hour,"  Mrs.  Lynde  added,  "and 
we  '11  go  together.  It  really  is  my  duty  as  your  hos- 
tess, under  the  circumstances,  to  go  with  you." 

Zandrie  made  a  gallant  effort  not  to  pout. 

"  You  know,  surely,"  her  hostess  went  on,  "  that  I 
would  n't  —  that  no  one  would  willingly  do  a  thing 
to  spoil  the  fun  of  your  new  freedom." 

"  No  one  has  the  right." 

"  No,  perhaps  not.  Yet  before  leaving  the  nuns 
last  night,  Mr.  Lynde  and  I  agreed  to  be  responsible 
for  you.  We  really  had  to  if  you  were  to  stay." 

Now  this  was  both  inexplicable  and  alarming.  Ju- 
lian had  already  said  that  her  coming  to  him  had  made 
him  responsible.  How  many  were  there  to  be? 
"  What  does  that  mean  ?  "  she  demanded. 


1 82  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


Mrs.  Lynde  explained  patiently  that  in  the  eyes  of 
the  law  she  was  still  a  child.  After  her  sister  died, 
the  nuns  had  taken  it  upon  themselves,  in  the  way  of 
charity  to  herself  and  respect  for  Sister  Angela,  to 
provide  her  with  clothing,  food,  and  shelter.  As  she 
had  no  property,  there  had  been  no  need  of  legal  pro- 
ceedings. But  before  consenting  to  relinquish  that 
volunteered  guardianship,  Mother  Genevieve  had  re- 
quired assurance  that  some  one  else  would  take  it  up, 
and  the  Lyndes  had  promised  to  assume  the  responsi- 
bility. 

"  I  feel  like  a  bird  caught  in  a  net !  "  cried  Zandrie. 
"  I  did  n't  want  any  more  guardians  and  I  won't  have 
them ! "  And  she  was  up  and  for  running  away  at 
once,  but  was  stopped  in  the  doorway  by  a  dawning 
realization  that  she  was  behaving  not  quite  as  one 
should  who  has  outgrown  the  need  of  all  guardianship 
in  the  world.  In  fact,  she  was  recalling  that  heavy 
sermon  of  the  early  morning. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  said  Mrs.  Lynde;  "  if  we  had  known 
how  you  felt —  You  see,  the  nuns  told  us  you  had 
no  money,  and  we  did  n't  see  how  you  could  possibly 
get  along  without  our  help,  except  by  going  back  to  the 
convent  —  because  of  course  it  would  n't  do  for  Julian 
to  provide  for  you,  much  as  he  would  like  to.  And 
so  we  thought  you  might  like  to  stay  with  us,  at  least 
till  we  found  some  other  home  —  some  other  way  of 
living,  you  know.  It  was  n't  with  any  idea  of  re- 
straining—  only  of  helping." 


AN    AGREEMENT  183 

Zandrie  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  "  Oh !  Oh !  I 
begin  to  see !  "  When  she  felt  an  arm  about  her  neck, 
she  caught  up  the  hand  to  her  lips.  "  Forgive  me," 
she  whispered.  "  I  was  wicked  and  ungrateful." 

"  You  're  a  darling.  You  did  n't  understand  — 
that 's  all.  But  you  do  now,  and  you  '11  stay  with  us 
for  a  while  and  try  it,  won't  you  ?  I  'm  very  much 
alone,  you  see,  with  Mr.  Lynde  away  in  his  laboratory 
all  day.  I  want  somebody  to  play  with  so!  Now 
come  and  get  ready.  We  '11  go  to  Julian  this  minute." 

The  scene  ended,  of  course,  with  Zandrie's  hugging 
Mrs.  Lynde  and  vowing  a  great  vow  to  herself,  which 
was  to  obey  as  submissively  henceforth  as  Sister  Ger- 
trude obeyed  her  Superior;  to  seek  advice  and  to  give 
heed. 

"  Is  n't  it  romantic ! "  Mrs.  Lynde  said  to  Julian, 
"  the  nuns  have  yielded  her  up  and  she  's  going  to  stay 
with  us.  You  know  it  already,  but  never  mind;  I 
have  to  talk  about  it  to  everybody  I  see.  She  's  a  dear, 
queer  little  child  —  the  sort  one  can't  keep  one's  hands 
off.  But  we  '11  lend  her  sometimes  if  you  're  very 
good  —  now,  for  instance.  Keep  him  out  of  that 
stupid  work,  my  dearest,  till  I  come  back,  for  I  've  got 
to  go  down  town  on  a  tie  hunt.  Mr.  Lynde  on  the 
sly  wore  his  Sunday  necktie  to  the  laboratory  and 
used  it  to  tie  the  end  of  something  to  a  retort,  which 
retorted  by  blowing  up.  He  did  n't  tell  a  very  co- 
herent tale  himself,  but  he  looked  pretty  sheepish  when 
he  got  home  —  and  rather  neglige." 


1 84  ZANDRIE 


A  brand-new  shyness  of  Julian  left  Zandrie  with 
nothing  to  say.  He  was  apparently  in  the  same  plight. 

"  Has  the  wicked  man  been  to  see  you  lately  ?  "  Mrs. 
Lynde  turned  at  the  door  to  ask.  "  I  thought  not ! 
He  started  last  Sunday  but  got  on  the  track  of  a 
mathematical  solution  of  something,  and  recovered 
consciousness  over  a  milking  stool  in  the  Lawsons' 
barnyard.  Next  time  he  '11  have  an  alarm  clock  tied 
to  his  ear." 

She  sped  away  laughing  at  her  own  jokes. 

And  now  that  Zandrie  was  alone  with  Julian,  there 
fell  away  from  her  not  only  the  shyness,  but  all  re- 
membrance of  the  advice  that  she  was  to  seek.  "  Are 
you  glad  to  see  me  ?  "  was  what  she  asked  instead. 

"  Glad  would  n't  express  it,"  he  answered  with  a 
smile  that  sent  delight  tingling  to  her  finger  tips. 
"  But  the  devil  will  get  me  if  I  don't  finish  this  in 
ten  minutes.  Then  we  '11  talk  —  hey  ?  " 

At  the  end  of  the  ten  minutes,  the  spirited  Billy 
burst  in,  balancing  on  one  palm  a  pile  of  galleys  that 
he  transferred  to  Julian's  knees  with  legerdemain  skill. 
At  sight  of  Zandrie,  he  grinned  and  winked  an  un- 
dauntable  gray  eye.  "  Seen  her  comin'  in  with  anoth- 
er party.  She's  a  cracker-jack,  aint  she?  Most  as 
peachy  as  my  girl!  Comin'  quite  often  now,  aint 
she  ?  I  bet  she  '11  be  livin'  here  for  good  an'  all,  one 
of  these  days." 

"  Come  back  here !  "  Julian,  shouted ;  but  the  clatter 


AN    AGREEMENT  185 

of  Billy's  feet  on  the  stairs  must  have  drowned  his 
voice. 

Zandrie  backed  away  from  Julian  with  her  stool,  in 
a  purely  factitious  fright.  He  was  scarlet  with  some 
sort  of  genuine  emotion. 

"  Confound  it!  "  he  burst  out;  "  that 's  what  you  're 
subjected  to  because  I  'm  tied  here  like  a  damned  rag 
doll  and  can't  hit  out.  .  .  .  O  my  stars!  Now 
I  Ve  done  it !  I  beg  your  pardon." 

She  assured  him  as  usual  that  she  never  minded 
swearing.  "  There !  I  thank  the  saints  that  you  '11 
smile  again!  Now,  if  the  Billy  storm  is  over,  talk 
to  me.  I  Ve  so  much  to  tell !  " 

"  That  you  Ve  chosen  another  guardian,  or  run  into 
more  debt  ?  " 

She  stamped  with  vexation,  but  told  him  of  the 
Lyndes'  kind  offer,  including  the  scene  that  she  had 
made ;  and  then  about  the  young  doctor. 

Julian  had  never  heard  of  him. 

"  No?  But  we  had  a  beautiful  talk  till  he  whisked 
out  of  my  sight  to  catch  a  train.  I  liked  him  almost 
as  well  as  you." 

"  Don't  believe  it.  What  was  your  beautiful  talk 
about?" 

"  That  I  '11  never  tell !  "  Perhaps  she  intended  to 
tell  after  all,  however,  and  would  have  done  so  but  for 
the  intrusion  of  a  new  idea.  "  Julian !  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Lynde  kiss  each  other  whenever  they  want  to !  " 


1 86 

"  Well,  why  the  deuce  should  n't  they?  " 

"Exactly!  Why  shouldn't  they?  But  I  thought 
you  said  that  morning  —  O  dear!  just  what  did  you 
say?" 

"  The  Lyndes  are  married  — " 

"  Yes !  And  only  married  people  can  express  their 
friendship  ?  You  tried  to  explain,  but  I  'm  all  twisted 
again." 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,  then." 

"  But  your  word  for  what  ?  " 

"  For  this,  madam :  that  the  condition  of  your  com- 
ing here  is  that  you  shan't  ask  me  to  explain  anything. 
Anything  whatever !  I  can't  do  it." 

"  You  precious  silly !  The  Lyndes  are  married,  as 
you  say;  so — " 

"  I  'd  rather  talk  about  the  doctor !  " 

"  I  'd  rather  talk  about  the  Lyndes  and  us." 

"  Ask  Mrs.  Lynde  all  questions  in  future.  She 
knows  lots  more  about  the  world  than  innocent 
me!" 

"  O  very  well !  It 's  a  queer  world,  and  I  '11  ask 
Mrs.  Lynde  and  every  one  I  meet,  about  it  —  every 
one  but  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "  Henceforth  the 
subject  is  tabooed." 

"Of  friendship?" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  "Yes,  exactly;  of 
friendship." 

She  shook  her  head.     "  I  '11  do  my  best.     But  I  can 


AN    AGREEMENT  187 

surely  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you  ?  That  is  n't '  the 
subject '?  " 

"  If  you  love  me  a  whole  lot,  of  course  — " 

"  I  do  when  you  laugh  like  that !  " 

"  But  I  reckon  it  '11  simplify  matters  if  you  don't." 
We  '11  agree  it 's  part  of  the  forbidden  subject." 

"O  me!"  she  sighed,  "then  I'll  have  to  keep  a 
strict  watch  over  my  tongue." 

And  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes,  she  had  tripped. 
He  was  questioning  her  about  her  debts,  and  suggest- 
ing that  it  would  be  better  to  owe  whatever  she  might 
owe,  to  one  person  only.  He  would  be  her  clearing 
house,  he  said;  in  fact,  he  had  already  given  the 
Prioress  a  check  for  Mrs.  McClung.  But  how  about 
Mr.  Fink?  Did  she  know  his  address? 

She  produced  his  card  from  her  pocket. 

Julian  produced  a  check  book  from  his,  and  wrote. 
"  I  'm  sorry  to  bother  you  and  Mrs.  Lynde,"  he  said, 
"  but  it  will  be  a  little  better  if  she  sends  this  herself 

—  if  she  writes  the  note." 

"  Why  not  write  it  myself?     I  'd  like  to !  " 
"  Because   your  chaperon  tells  you   not   to."     He 
threw  back  his  head  with  another  laugh. 

"  You  are  most  wonderfully  curious,"  she  said 
gravely,  "  you,  who  once  seemed  the  most  understanda- 
ble of  all.  I  '11  let  Mrs.  Lynde  write  the  note,  then 

—  if  you  '11  talk  to  me,  please,  about  yourself." 

"  Don't  tempt  many  men  that  way !  You  might 
meet  a  bore,  some  day !  " 


1 88  ZANDRIE 


She  ignored  his  levity.  "  I  know  so  very  little 
about  even  your  life!  " 

"  I  thank  the  saints  for  that." 

"  You  were  a  musician,  and  a  mighty  rider,  arid 
went  abroad ;  and  then  — " 

"  To  be  sure !  And  then  I  fell  into  a  bad  dream, 
and  woke  to  find  a  little  girl  of  whom  I  was  afraid  — " 

"  O  never !  You  did  with  her  exactly  as  you 
pleased.  And  after  that  — " 

He  smiled  wickedly.  "  And  after  that,  a  long  but 
inactive  career  in  a  plaster  jacket;  and  a  powerful  lot 
of  language  not  made  for  ladies ;  and  a  new  valet  car- 
ried out  on  a  shutter  every  third  day  —  Not  so  inac- 
tive, maybe,  after  all!  Carter  was  the  ninth  in  six 
months.  He  's  going  to  get  a  medal  for  valor." 

"  He  says  you  don't  heave  projectiles  any  more." 

"He  told — ?  Confound  him!  No  — it  didn't 
pay.  O  pshaw !  whenever  I  try  to  talk  about  myself, 
you  quote  Carter  and  say  you  know  better." 

"  There  's  one  thing  he  says  " —  she  caught  her 
breath — "that  I  can't  bear  to  believe." 

"  So  he  's  been  telling  more  tales !  " 

"  He  says  —  he  says  that  you  have  pain  still.  And 
he  says  you  don't  make  a  fuss  about  it." 

"  Carter  's  evidently  losing  his  mind." 

Though  knowing  herself  on  the  forbidden  ground 
now,  she  went  on.  "  I  'm  ashamed  to  call  my  cow- 
ardly self  your  friend.  My  imprisonment  has  been 


AN    AGREEMENT  189 

Paradise  beside  yours  —  yes,  for  I  knew  that  freedom 
was  coming." 

"  One  gets  used  to  anything.  I  Ve  forgotten  how 
freedom  felt." 

"  And  the  pain  that  you  can't  forget?  " 

"  I  hate  it.     We  won't  talk  about  it,  ever." 

"  And  the  lost  music,  and  the  lost  everything  that 
makes  life  worth  living?  Ah!  you  see  you  've  noth- 
ing to  answer.  You  're  the  bravest  man  I  know." 

"  And  you  've  known  how  many  ?  "  But  after  a 
pause,  "  Yes,"  he  said,  not  meeting  her  eyes,  "  I  can 
answer.  There  were  times  when  I  used  to  think  I'd 
lost  everything  —  damnable  times,  too, —  and  the 
coward  in  me  almost  got  the  best  of  it.  But  then  — " 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"  Then  my  aunt  —  I  don't  know  how  she  worked 
it,  but  she  made  me  see  that  a  man  can't  lose  all  that 's 
most  worth  while,  after  all,  except  by  his  own  will 

—  or  lack  of  it." 

"  O  yes,"  said  Zandrie,  understanding  not  at  all. 

"  I  reckon  it 's  true,"  he  said,  "  for,  don't  you  see, 
if  the  things  that  are  most  worth  while  are  n't  the 
things  you  fight  for,  but  the  fight  itself,  for  instance 

—  then  you  've  got  your  fate  by  the  collar,  after  all. 
Life  would  be  a  pretty  godless  puzzle  if  —     Anyhow, 
there  's  a  lot  of  fun  in  a  fight"     After  a  pause,  "  I  Ve 
got  a  pile  of  good  ideas,  have  n't  I  ?     Apply  to  Carter 
to  find  out  how  I  've  lived  up  to  them !  " 


190  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


It  was  the  first  time  in  the  renewal  of  their  friend- 
ship that  he  had  taken  her  seriously,  but  although  she 
was  having  to  sit  on  her  hands  to  keep  them  within 
bounds,  she  might  have  succeeded,  perhaps,  but  for 
what  came  next;  for,  "  I  don't  even  keep  my  temper," 
he  went  on,  with  appealing  candor;  "yet  I  do  try  a 
lot.  Only  last  night,  Carter  tried  to  turn  me  into  a 
corkscrew,  and  I  did  n't  swear." 

Zandrie  sat  harder  on  her  poor  hands.  "  I  should 
hope  not!  Does  —  does  Carter  often  do  such  things 
to  you?" 

"  Heaven  forbid !     But  I  often  swear." 

"  He  looks  like  a  June-bug  and  I  hate  him !  "  But 
all  at  once  the  unruly  hands  shot  out  to  him  in  a  mo- 
tion of  passionate  yearning.  "Julian!  Julian  dar- 
ling!" 

Then,  in  a  fright,  she  ran  to  the  window  and  stood 
there,  trembling  at  the  tempest  of  pity  and  love  that 
had  flung  the  words  from  her  before  she  had  known 
they  were  there.  It  was  the  newness  of  passion  that 
frightened  so.  Though  knowing  that  she  had  done 
no  wrong,  she  looked  at  him  at  last,  half  expecting  a 
rebuke. 

His  eyes  sought  hers  with  a  question  —  a  moment's 
perplexity.  Then,  with  a  shove  of  the  hair  from  his 
forehead,  his  hand  swept  away  the  frown.  "  You  're 
a  child,"  he  said  as  though  in  explanation  of  some- 
thing. An  irrelevant  remark  —  puzzling,  but  of  small 
importance  beside  the  smile  by  which  she  was  reas- 


AN    AGREEMENT  191 

sured  that  she  had  not  been  at  fault.  "  I  evidently 
owe  Carter  an  apology,"  he  said.  "  He  's  the  best 
fellow  I  know.  I  did  n't  mean  —  I  was  only  speak- 
ing of  my  temper,  which  is  awful,  but  on  the  mend. 
.  .  .  Well,  are  n't  you  coming  back  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  must  go,"  she  faltered ;  for  within  the 
minute,  the  horrid  shyness  had  her  writhing  again  in 
its  grip.  She  drew  a  quivering  breath,  looked  out 
of  the  window,  and,  finding  no  inspiration  in  Mrs. 
Bright's  clothes-poles,  turned  desperately  back  to  Ju- 
lian. Go?  Leave  him?  They  were  the  irresponsi- 
ble words  of  embarrassment.  The  whimsical  gods  of 
the  world  permitting,  she  would  never  leave  him 
again  for  so  much  as  an  hour.  Yet  he  was  strange 
and  she  feared  him  —  feared  something  —  who  could 
say  what?  His  next  words  ushered  her  straight  into 
a  maze  of  puzzled  misery. 

"  I  'm  sorry  you  must  go,"  he  said  politely.  "  You 
and  Mrs.  Lynde  will  come  again  soon,  of  course?  " 

She  stared  at  him,  baffled,  hurt,  tears  gathering. 
He  saw,  and  frowned  with  perplexity  again.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  don't  know  what 's 
the  matter,  but  —  Good  heavens!  what  is  the  matter? 
Come  here !  " 

She  came,  and  let  him  take  her  hand  as  though 
she  were  a  child.  , 

"  Tell  me  the  trouble,"  he  said.  But  she  hardly 
heard,  knowing  only  the  warm  grasp  of  his  hands. 

"What  is  it?" 


192  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


"  Nothing."  One  of  the  tears  trickled  down  her 
cheek,  but  she  was  no  longer  unhappy;  the  shyness 
had  gone.  "  I'm  not  crying ! "  she  added,  giving  his  hand 
a  defiant  little  shake ;  "  and  I'm  not  going  either !  " 

"I'm  right  glad  of  both  items." 

"  And  I  'm  coming  every  day." 

"  I  'd  like  to  have  you,  but  — " 

"  Then  I  '11  come." 

"  But  —  Well,  to  be  uncivil  but  to  the  point,—  I  '11 
have  to  ask  you  not  to  come  again  till  next  Sunday. 
I  Ve  got  to !  You  understand,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  plain  saying." 

"  Zandrie !  You  must  understand !  I  'd  like 
mighty  well  to  see  you  sooner,  but  Carter  's  in  here 
working  with  me  a  lot  of  the  time,  and  —  Mrs.  Lynde 
will  agree  with  me." 

"Saints  preserve  us!     Why?" 

"  That 's  not  sticking  to  the  agreement.  Ask  '  why  ' 
of  her.  I  must  work,  for  one  thing ;  but  — " 

"  But  Carter  said  you  did  n't  have  to  work ;  and 
if  you  'd  really  like  me  to  come  sooner  — " 

"I  really  should,  but—" 

"  Then  I  '11  come  to-morrow.  I  '11  read  a  novel 
and  turn  the  pages  without  a  single  crackle  to  disturb 
you." 

"  You  will  come  henceforth,"  said  Julian,  "  on  Sun- 
days only." 

And  in  the  end  she  had  to  yield.  Verily,  a  mad 
world. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    FIRST   SUNDAY    IN    JUNE 

Wonderful  days,  these,  the  first  in  the  world, 
though  as  full  of  bewilderment  as  of  joyous  wonder. 
Life  with  the  Lyndes  alone  was  a  snarl  of  perplex- 
ities, for  all  that  they  were  solving  what  must  other- 
wise have  been  the  stiff est  problem  of  all,  by  keep- 
ing her  week  after  week  as  their  guest,  silencing  her 
with  hospitable  laughter  when  she  chanced  to  remem- 
ber the  dying  dream  of  the  work  awaiting  her.  "  Wait 
a  little,"  they  said,  as  though  she  were  not  perfectly 
willing  to  wait  till  doomsday.  Her  sense  of  obliga- 
tion for  the  supplying  of  daily  needs  was  in  exact 
proportion  to  her  worldly  knowledge,  which  her  life 
still  held  to  the  measure  of  a  child's.  Throughout  the 
convent  days,  food  and  shelter  were  taken  for 
granted,  accepted  without  question  of  her  right,  being 
there  for  one's  need  —  that  was  all  —  as  grass  for  the 
beasts'.  The  nuns'  few  references  to  her  dependence 
on  others  had  no  meaning  for  her,  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  the  supply  had  never  failed.  It  was  there 
without  her  asking,  the  obvious,  every-day,  common- 
place fact.  No  one  had  suggested  that  it  could  fail. 
13  I93 


194  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


But  the  gift  of  love  was  another  matter;  and  courtesy 
must  be  met  with  courtesy,  whose  demands  kept  con- 
flicting distractingly  with  one's  right  of  freedom,  till 
there  would  creep  in  sometimes  a  sense  of  having  been 
snared  by  very  kindness,  and  a  teasing  resentment 
against  the  Lyndes  themselves.  Who  would  not  be 
petulant  at  finding  a  net-work  of  hindrances  where 
one  had  come  to  look  for  all  delight?  But  her  hostess 
was  doubtless  right  in  pronouncing  her  a  little  "  diffi- 
cult "  as  well  as  intense,  at  times. 

Her  dream  of  the  world  had  been  a  whirl  of  rain- 
bow mists,  and  like  most  dreams,  soon  forgotten. 
Even  that  happy  chimera,  her  work  in  the  world,  was 
forgotten  at  last  —  and  forever.  She  was  one  of 
those  for  whom  few  facts  are  facts  until  linked  to 
some  central  emotion.  Given  the  emotion,  life, 
whether  for  better  or  for  worse,  becomes  simple  at 
least.  And  Julian  had  provided  it  from  her  very 
young  girlhood.  Her  life  had  become  simpler  still 
when  she  kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  the  morning 
after  her  coming.  He  was  from  that  hour  forth 
the  meaning  of  reality,  the  pivot  of  her  motives,  shov- 
ing from  her  thought  whatever  had  no  kinship  with 
himself.  And  except  at  the  first,  she  wondered  not 
at  all  that  this  should  be  so,  but  thought  about  Julian 
himself  instead. 

Even  the  pink  dress  given  her  by  Mrs.  Lynde  did 
not  become  a  real  delight  until  he  had  seen  her  wear 
it.  "  Do  you  know  me  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Zandrie  in 


FIRST    SUNDAY    IN   JUNE       195 

pink  ruffles,  and  her  hair  up !  I  'm  all  of  the  world 
now."  And  she  found  it  strange  that  he  only  sat 
staring  solemnly,  with  folded  arms.  "  O  you !  " — • 
and  she  stamped  her  foot  — "  have  n't  I  forbidden  you 
to  look  at  me  so  ?  No  one  knows  what 's  happening 
behind  your  eyes.  And  to  do  it  now !  —  now !  You 
glare  as  though  I  were  a  daughter  of  Heth.  Of 
course  I  know  my  hair  's  as  black  as  ever ;  but  these 
darling  ruffles  and  pink  roses  .  .  ." 

Yet  for  all  the  roses  on  her  hat,  he  was  abominably 
silent  that  day,  and  for  minutes  together  she  would 
see  what  she  called  his  "  stranger  look  " —  a  look 
that,  while  she  dared  to  scold  him,  yet  frightened  her 
with  a  sense  of  aloofness,  for  it  came  at  seconds  when 
their  comradeship  seemed  closest,  and  built  a  wall  be- 
tween them.  "  What  is  it  then?  "  she  ventured  once. 
"  Why  do  you  shut  yourself  up  in  a  queer,  hard  shell? 
You  seem  in  a  sort  of  feud  with  yourself,  and  I 
never  know  on  which  side  to  find  you!  Is  anything 
the  matter?  If  so,  friends  are  for  helping  one  an- 
other, and  —  I  want  to  be  your  friend." 

"  And  I  want  to  be  yours,"  he  had  answered  slowly, 
and  then  asked  an  abrupt  question  about  the  Lyndes. 

Perhaps  she  was  right  in  saying  that  no  one  knew 
what  went  on  behind  his  eyes  —  especially  when  one 
turned  in  the  doorway  to  find  in  them  a  look  that 
was  part  a  question,  but  mostly  —  ah,  that  was  just 
what  one  could  n't  tell.  But  then,  she  had  never  yet 
thought  to  ask  whether  he  loved  her,  or  what  would 


196  ZANDRIE 

come  of  it  if  he  did.  Her  passion  was  still  too  young 
to  define  its  wants,  too  satisfied  with  its  own  being 
to  ask  why  it  existed.  It  meant  Julian  now,  and  the 
future  meant  Julian. 

June  came  in  like  a  dragon,  growling  and  breath- 
ing fire;  and  on  the  first  Sunday,  Zandrie  had  to  set 
out  proclaiming  her  special  love  of  lightning  and 
water,  in  the  face  of  a  thunderstorm  and  the  Lyndes' 
protests.  Even  Mr.  Lynde  —  whose  "  real  "  name 
she  said  was  "  Poggy,"  which  she  called  him  ever 
after  —  even  he  had  failed  to  believe  in  that  love  of 
lightning  and  water,  and  sent  for  a  coupe,  which,  to 
keep  the  peace,  she  had  ridden  in  for  a  block  and  then 
dismissed.  As  for  Julian,  he  was  for  sending  her 
back  because  her  shoes  were  wet. 

"  Is  there  always  such  confusion  in  the  world,"  she 
asked  petulantly,  "  when  a  body  steps  out  in  the  rain  ? 
In  the  convent  days  I  splashed  in  the  wet  as  much  as  I 
liked.  The  rain?  why,  it  would  never  think  of  harm- 
ing. Every  drop  is  a  message  —  think !  out  of 
Heaven  itself!  —  that  some  day  things  will  all  be 
pure  and  good,  and  the  thunder  shakes  out  a  threat 
because  they  're  not  better.  I  love  it,  every  bit.  So 
do  you ! " 

"  Rain?     I  Ve  even  forgotten  how  it  feels." 

She  ran  to  the  window  to  catch  a  handful  of  drops 
falling  from  the  eaves;  then,  with  a  laugh  and  before 
he  could  catch  her  wrist,  she  had  shaken  them  over 
his  hair  and  laid  her  wet  palm  across  his  forehead. 


FIRST    SUNDAY    IN    JUNE       197 

His  own  hand  closed  on  hers,  and  he  looked  up  with  a 
smile  that  pushed  her  fear  of  him  over  the  edge  of  a 
well  of  delight  and  broke  a  chink  in  the  wall  between 
them. 

"  '  La  belle  dame  sans  merci',' '  he  said  at  last ;  and 
she  knew  he  by  no  means  referred  to  her  shower. 

"  Ah  no, —  your  heaven !  for  I  sent  rain  upon  you." 

"  Let  heaven  do  its  own  work,  and  go  back  to  your 
seat." 

She  did  not  move.  "  How  did  my  shower  feel, 
then?" 

"  Wet  and  cold." 

Her  left  hand  was  on  the  back  of  his  chair,  very 
near  his  hair;  if  she  stirred,  perhaps  fear  would  come 
shivering  up  out  of  the  well  and  plug  the  hole  in  the 
wall, —  the  little  hole  that  his  smile  had  made.  "  When 
I  was  a  child,"  she  said  very  low,  "  I  loved  you  because 
you  could  do  what  you  pleased  with  me ;  but  that 's 
not  why  I  love  you  now, —  be  sure !  "  She  was 
more  than  three-quarters  in  earnest  in  spite  of  her 
little  laugh.  "  Am  I  on  the  forbidden  ground  ?  It 
must  be  an  island  about  which  my  life  flows,  for  when- 
ever I  put  my  hand  out,  there  it  is  .  .  .  O  me! 
You  were  right:  the  world  is  strange,  and  I  know 
almost  nothing  else  about  it,  though  I  saw  so  much 
of  it  this  week!  "  She  probably  referred  to  the  half- 
dozen  girls  whom  Mrs.  Lynde  asked  to  lunch. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  he  said;  and  his  tone,  like  some- 
thing waking  one  from  a  dream,  brought  confusion, 


198  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


and  then  a  chilly  sense  of  reality.  "  Sit  down,"  he 
added.  But  still  she  would  not  be  afraid  of  him 
quite  yet. 

"  My  week  was  a  year  long,"  she  said.  "  Was 
yours  shorter  ?  " 

"  Short  enough." 

She  smiled  vaguely,  and  then  laid  her  hand  on  his 
hair.  She  had  been  summoning  courage  to  do  it,  for 
a  full  minute.  He  gripped  both  arms  of  his  chair. 
"  It  feels  as  it  used,"  she  murmured,  "  but  it 's  darker ; 
almost  brown.  No,  not  really  brown;  still  full  of 
gold." 

"  Sit  down,"  he  commanded,  a  little  hoarsely. 

She  obeyed ;  but  she  was  not  afraid  —  oh  no !  — 
though  his  face  was  turned  away.  "  You  were  with 
me  in  the  woods  yesterday,"  she  said.  "  Did  you 
know  it  ?  But  you  're  always  with  me  there.  But 
yesterday  —  yesterday  we  had  such  a  very  particu- 
larly good  time  together." 

At  that,  he  looked  at  her  with  a  wist  fulness  that 
had  sometimes  stolen  into  his  eyes  of  late. 

"  Were  you  happy  there  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  still  looked  at  her. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  back  ?  " 

"  Show  me  the  way,"  he  answered. 

"  To  my  woods?  " 

"To  mine,"  he  said  after  a  pause;  and  added, 
"Where  I  must  go  alone,  after  all.  .  .  ." 

She  leaned  forward.     "  Julian  —  you  're  not  alone, 


FIRST    SUNDAY    IN    JUNE       199 

—  not  any  more.  And  you  can  come  to  the  woods 
too, —  to  mine ;  I  '11  take  you.  Yes !  yes  1  Shut  your 
eyes  and  see  if  I  can't !  "  She  moved  her  stool  nearer 
still.  "  I  can  do  it.  /  'm  there  now !  Shut  your 
eyes  —  please!  .  .  .  There!  We're  just  turn- 
ing off  from  the  road.  Do  you  see  ?  we  must  wriggle 
through  the  bars  where  the  cart-track  leads  into  the 
field  and  winds  about  the  foot  of  the  hill.  The  hill- 
side 's  bristling  here  with  stones  and  brambles,  yet  if 
you  '11  look,  there  are  violets  with  short  stems ;  and 
on  the  other  side  of  those  birches  —  they  've  wandered 
away  from  the  rest,  you  see, —  the  hill 's  all  blazing 
with  wild  azalea.  But  wait.  We  must  keep  on  to 
the  top.  There  's  no  path,  but  the  rocks  make  steps. 
.  .  .  O  look!  one  poor,  late  columbine!  But 
they  're  always  sad  in  spite  of  their  robes  of  sunlight ; 
they  try  to  deceive,  I  said,  till  I  understood.  But  look 
up  now  and  see  the  army  of  grasses  against  the  sky. 
They  're  shams !  To-day  they  're  standing  stiff 
enough,  but  when  the  wind  calls  to  battle,  they  trem- 
ble and  lie  flat;  so  their  bravery  of  spears  is  only  a 
show.  And  look,  where  the  ghostly  moon  haunts  the 
tree-tops,  as  white  as  a  cloud  and  just  ready  to  melt 
back  into  the  blue.  .  .  .  O  Julian!  to  think 
you  're  really  with  me  here  at  last !  "  Her  own  eyes 
wrere  shut  now.  "  Now  we  're  up  where  we  can  see 
the  town  —  almost  the  windows  of  the  very  room 
where  you  used  to  lie  all  day  —  and  there  's  the  red 
farm-house.  The  roofs  and  chimneys  and  the  fairy 


200  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

tree-tops  lie  all  unreal  under  the  strips  and  twists  of 
purple  smoke.  The  gold  cross  on  the  spire  there 
burns  through  the  mist;  that's  real.  .  .  .  But 
the  other  way!  Look  off  to  the  hills.  To-day 
they  're  rugged  and  earnest,  but  some  days  they  sleep 
and  are  dim  with  mists  which  are  their  dreams.  Do 
you  see  them?  Do  you  see  them?  But  come  into 
the  woods  themselves  —  into  the  place  where  all  the 
green  things  stand  up  unafraid.  .  .  .  See  the 
laurel  leaves  glistening,  and  the  rosy  specks  of  the 
buds.  Feel  the  slippery  floor  of  needles  and  the 
twigs  that  catch  at  us;  and  see  the  starry  pines.  Oh, 
the  pines !  There  's  a  breeze  overhead.  Oh,  and  the 
brown  bird  that  sings  a  song  of  ferns  uncurling  and 
of  water  in  the  shadow  of  a  rock.  .  .  .  Now  — 
now  we  '11  go  down  the  hill  on  the  other  side,  by  the 
swamp  where  lazy  old  Jack-priests  doze  in  the  shade 
of  their  little  pulpits,  and  water  trickles  through  the 
fairy  forests  of  moss,  and  silver  drops  slide  down 
long,  smooth  stems.  There  's  quiet  there  as  big  as 
the  sky.  We  're  alone  there,  you  and  I.  Come 
there ! "  and  she  held  out  her  hand.  His  eyes  met 
hers,  and  he  took  it;  but  in  the  light  in  his  eyes,  she 
forgot  the  touch,  for  it  was  the  look  of  which  she 
had  dreamed  on  the  night  of  moonlight  and  wild 
yearning,  when  she  had  been  drawn  to  his  door  as  by 
a  chain;  a  look  that  drew  the  strength  from  her  body, 
pouring  ecstacy  into  every  pore,  annulling  thought 


FIRST    SUNDAY    IN    JUNE       201 

and  sense.  Body  was  forgotten;  ecstacy  alone  was 
left,  at  one  with  the  blue  fire  of  the  eyes  that  had 
kindled  it,  burning  away  the  chains  of  time.  While 
it  stayed,  she  held  her  breath.  At  last  his  grasp  re- 
laxed; and  very  slowly,  his  eyes  still  compelling  her 
own,  he  put  away  her  hand.  Then  as  with  effort  he 
turned  his  face  away;  and  with  the  movement,  the 
spell  was  broken  and  life  stepped  back  into  its  old 
setting  of  time  and  space. 

The  wind  flung  handfuls  of  rain  against  the  win- 
dow. Julian's  lips  were  set  and  pale.  He  was  al- 
ready slipping  from  her,  behind  the  wall;  she  was 
losing  him  and  must  call  him  back.  So  his  name 
broke  from  her  like  a  cry.  "  Speak  to  me,"  she 
pleaded,  "  I  'm  afraid." 

But  he  sat  rigid,  unheeding;  and  the  wind  rattled 
a  loose  pane  of  glass. 

He  was  manifestly  in  one  of  those  feuds  with  him- 
self, about  which  she  was  still  in  the  dark.  Of  only 
one  thing  she  was  sure  —  that  they  were  not  struggles 
with  pain.  Those  must  be  different;  instinct  per- 
suaded her  that  in  those,  the  wall  between  them  must 
be  lower,  not  higher.  But  from  these  battles  she 
knew  only  that  he  would  come  out  estranged,  aloof; 
an  unaccountable,  fierce  Julian  that  refused  to  smile 
and  could  even  order  her  to  leave  him ;  so  that  what- 
ever their  meaning,  they  gave  her  dread.  Would  he 
find  it  in  his  heart  to  send  her  away  now,  after  that 


202  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


look  in  which  his  very  soul  had  held  out  a  hand  to 
hers?  That  was  unbelievable.  Yet  she  watched  his 
face,  waiting  for  the  order.  And  it  came. 

"  Go  back !  "  he  said,  a  strange  trembling  in  his 
voice.  "  Go  back  to  the  convent !  ...  It  will  be 
better  —  for  both  of  us." 

"  You  would  really  have  me  ?  " 

No  answer,  except  her  own.  "  No ;  for  you  said 
you  wanted  to  be  my  friend,  and  I  '11  dare  to  believe 
you." 

"  You  've  no  friend  in  me,"  he  murmured  at  last. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  or  I  have  done,  that  you 
say  such  a  thing." 

Again  no  answer. 

"Why  were  you  afraid?"  he  asked,  after  the 
pause. 

"  You  were  with  me  —  for  the  first  time."  Her 
own  voice  trembled  now.  "  And  then  you  were  slip- 
ping from  me  —  after  you  took  my  hand." 

"  Forget  that,  for  Heaven's  sake." 

"  I  could  n't  if  I  wanted.     That  you  know." 

Did  he  know?  Perhaps;  but  he  gave  no  sign. 
"  Forgive  me,"  he  said.  "  I  did  n't  mean  to  frighten 
you.  I  —  I  'm  much  to  blame.  We  ought  to  have 
stayed  in  the  woods." 

"I'd  rather  stay  here."  She  sat  with  tightly 
clasped  hands.  "  I  love  this  room  better  than  all  the 
windy,  woodsy  out-of-doors;  this  queer,  beautiful 


FIRST    SUNDAY    IN    JUNE       203 

room  that  no  one  dusts  but  Carter  and  me.  It 's 
strange  — " 

"  It  is  strange,"  he  interrupted  rather  grimly.  "  It 's 
all  strange  —  the  whole  thing."  He  stopped.  A  lit- 
tle flush  spread  over  his  face.  "  It  —  it  must  n't  go 
on,  you  know." 

"What  mustn't?" 

A  long  pause,  till  she  repeated  the  question. 

"  You  're  only  a  child,"  he  said,  "  but  —  it  would  n't 
be  right  anyway, —  I  believe.  ...  Of  course  not 
.  .  .  But  it 's  been  my  fault,  of  course,  that  we 
have  n't  —  kept  to  our  agreement  better." 

"What  agreement?" 

"  You  know." 

Yes,  she  knew.  But,  "What's  the  use?"  she 
asked.  "  I  Ve  lived  a  whole  five  weeks  in  the  world, 
and  it  still  seems  nonsense  that  we  should  n't  speak 
the  truth." 

"It  isn't  the  truth!" 

"  You  know  —  we  both  know  — " 

"I  don't  know  it!" 

"  Then  you  're  very  stupid."  But  she  knew  also 
that  he  understood. 

"  We  must  try  to  help  each  other,"  he  went  on,  "  to 
keep  it  better  —  our  agreement." 

"  About  —  the  forbidden  subject  ?  " 

"If.  we  failed,—"  he  said. 

"I  hope  we  shall!" 


204  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


"  But  I  think  we  need  n't  fail,"  he  added,  after  a 
long  pause. 

"And  if  we  do?" 

"  I  don't  know  —  exactly.  We  —  might  n't  see 
each  other  any  more,  I  suppose,  for  one  thing." 

"  But  you  could  n't  keep  me  away !  " 

"  I  could  and  would." 

The  mere  set  of  his  lips  frightened  her  so  that  she 
called  desperately  on  humor  to  help  her.  "  How  rude 
it  would  look!  People  would  hear  a  lady  pleading 
at  your  door,  and  marvel  at  your  gruffness.  But  I 
would  n't  put  you  in  such  a  light ;  I  'd  climb  quietly 
in  at  the  window." 

He  met  her  laughter  with  a  lame  attempt  at  a 
frown. 

"  Now  you  're  reasonable!  "  she  cried.  "  Smile  all 
the  way,  and  I  '11  —  tell  you  something !  " 

"  I  was  in  earnest,"  he  said. 

"  About  forcing  a  guest  — " 

"About  —  you  know  what." 

"Indeed  no!" 

"  Then  you  're  very  stupid !  .  .  .  And  if  you 
don't  go  home  now,  this  minute,  while  the  rain  has 
stopped  —  I  '11  ring  for  Carter  to  carry  you !  " 

"  You  're  really  tired  of  me,  then?  " 

"  You  — !     Do  you  really  doubt  it  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't." 

She  reached  for  her  rain-coat,  pouting. 

And  the  hook  of  the  collar  was  of  course  to  blame 


FIRST    SUNDAY    IN    JUNE       205 

for  what  happened  next.  It  refused  to  find  the  eye, 
persuading  her  after  a  minute  of  half-hearted  strug- 
gle, to  kneel  by  Julian's  side  for  help.  And  before 
she  rose,  she  dared  herself  to  a  reckless  act,  and  took 
the  dare;  caught  and  kissed  the  hand  that  he  was 
withdrawing.  Her  laugh  rang  out  as  she  jumped 
away.  She  had  never  kissed  him  since  the  morning 
when  she  found  her  hill;  but  her  kiss  to-day  was  a 
little  piece  of  pure,  unexpected  deviltry. 

Yet  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  was  afraid.  Un- 
reasonable, incomprehensible  though  it  was,  the  threat 
not  to  let  her  come  to  him  filled  her  with  an  uneasi- 
ness that  would  not  be  downed.  There  was  a  will  be- 
hind his  eyes  that  had  already  bent  hers  again  and 
again.  She  must  run  no  risks,  she  told  herself.  And 
during  all  the  week  that  followed,  she  was  building 
up  stanch  resolutions  not  to  show  by  word  or  act  how 
well  she  loved  him ;  lest  somehow  she  should  lose  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    NORTHWEST    WIND 

It  was  this  vague  uneasiness  that  on  the  following 
Sunday  whispered  an  artifice.  She  would  not  hurry 
to  him  as  usual,  but,  to  prove  that  she  loved  him  none 
too  well,  she  would  go  elsewhere  first, —  an  idea  that 
pleased  her  mightily  till  she  came  to  its  practice.  For 
invisible  hands  were  dragging  her  to  his  door,  pulling 
her  down  the  street  till  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  his 
door-step.  There  she  made  a  stand,  though  the  bat- 
tle raged.  It  was  a  week  since  she  had  heard  his 
voice  —  seven  days  of  famine.  He  was  awaiting  her 
at  this  moment, —  wanting  her,  perhaps.  Yes,  she  be- 
lieved that  he  wanted  her  very  much ;  and  yet  —  again 
came  recollection  of  his  strange  threat,  and  the  dread 
that  had  haunted  her  throughout  the  week.  A  foolish 
dread,  that,  for  all  its  absurdity,  made  her  wheel  about 
at  last  and  walk  doggedly  on  towards  the  hill,  where 
she  arrived  by  no  means  rejoicing  in  her  strength. 

But  there  was  a  northwest  wind  on  the  hill-top, 
singing  in  the  trees  that  swung  with  it  while  Zandrie 
ran  with  it.  Sunlight  danced  on  boughs  and  ground 
like  mad,  scattering  patches  of  brightness  for  the  wind 

206 


THE    NORTHWEST   WIND       207 

to  play  battledore  with.  Sometimes  they  fell  on  the 
laurel,  touching  the  blossoms  to  liquid  silver ;  then  off 
again,  anywhere,  nowhere, —  the  wind  never  stopped 
to  see ;  it  was  having  a  game  with  the  birch  tops  now, 
and  the  sunbeams  were  caught  in  its  garments.  Bird- 
notes  thrilled  out  on  the  gusts,  to  be  snatched  unfin- 
ished out  of  hearing.  Sometimes  she  called  back, 
but  the  wind  and  she  were  racing  and  she  could  not 
wait  for  an  answer.  Out  of  breath  now  and  then, 
she  stopped  for  a  spray  of  laurel.  It  was  out  in  full 
bloom  at  last,  its  bushes  all  rosy  and  waxen  and 
silver.  Yet  the  blossoms  shivered  and  glimmered 
coldly  between  the  tree-trunks,  for  in  spite  of  June, 
the  day  was  as  chilly  as  early  April.  Even  without 
the  call  of  the  wind  she  would  have  run  to  keep  warm ; 
but  the  giant  gusts  took  her,  and  in  the  delight  of  their 
tumultuous  strength  she  felt  neither  weariness  nor 
cold.  She  was  part  of  the  big  wind-game,  and  intox- 
icated as  the  birds. 

But  when  the  sun  swung  so  low  that  its  rays  slanted 
between  the  tree-trunks  into  her  eyes,  then  she  stopped 
with  her  arms  full  of  laurel,  and  looked  towards  the 
town.  In  the  riotous  fun  of  the  northwest  wind  she 
had  not  felt  the  loneliness  of  the  wide  hill-top, —  not 
until  this  moment.  But  now  the  sight  of  the  town 
stabbed  her  with  a  quick  yearning.  That  joy  of  the 
wind  and  singing  trees,  which  but  a  moment  since 
had  seemed  reality  at  its  richest, —  already  it  had 
faded  to  a  dream,  and  "  oh,  but  the  long  way  back 


208  Z  A  N  D  R I  E 


to  town ! "  she  sighed.     She  had  come  farther  than 
her  bond  required. 

A  turn  of  the  door-knob  at  last,  a  single  step  for- 
ward, and  the  face  for  which  she  had  hungered 
through  seven  days-  would  be  there  to  see,  perhaps 
with  the  light  of  the  low-hanging  sun  on  the  hair,  and 
in  the  eyes  —  surely  —  surprised  gladness.  But  she 
gripped  the  stems  of  the  laurel  with  a  will,  for  she 
was  going  to  be  good;  sun  or  no  sun  on  his  hair,  she 
was  going  to  be  never  so  good.  She  would  laugh  and 
chatter  as  she  had  heard  other  girls  chatter  to  men 
in  the  world,  no  word  of  forbidden  love  escaping. 
Why  not?  She  thought  it  would  even  be  easy.  She 
would  lock  down  every  sign  of  love,  lest  somehow  she 
should  lose  him. 

She  thought  it  would  be  easy,  even  after  she  had 
opened  the  door,  to  find  him  lying  on  the  couch  in- 
stead of  sitting  in  his  chair  as  usual.  She  crossed 
to  him  in  silence  and  laid  the  laurel  on  his  breast. 
"  Why  are  you  lying  here  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  For  variety." 

"  I  hate  a  lie ! "  and  she  clasped  her  hands  under 
her  chin.  "  Have  you  been  here  long?  " 

"  Only  since  five.  I  thought  —  Where  have  you 
been?  I  thought  you  were  n't  coming.  Look  at  that 
clock!" 

She  smiled  —  ruefully  —  at  the  success  of  her  trick. 


THE    NORTHWEST    WIND       209 

"  So  late  ?  I  can't  believe  it.  I  blew  away  in  the 
woods.  But  see  what  I  got  on  the  way !  " 

He  looked  only  at  her,  however. 

"  Look, —  the  laurel !  I  thought  of  you  now  and 
then,  and  broke  off  a  spray." 

"  And  the  rest  of  the  time?  " 

"  I  ran  like  an  animal.  But  had  n't  you  better 
count  the  sprays  ?  " 

"Why?" 

"  Why,  stupid,  to  find  out  how  often  I  thought  of 
you.  You  could  easily  count !  " 

Yet  it  was  not  so  easy  —  this  part  she  had  chosen. 
When  she  had  promised  to  be  good,  she  had  not  bar- 
gained to  find  him  on  his  back.  And  the  bewilder- 
ment into  which  she  was  bringing  him,  helped  her  so 
little  that  she  had  to  turn  away  now  and  walk  to  the 
window.  When  she  had  opened  it  to  the  gale  that 
whirled  in  like  a  mad  spirit  of  fun,  she  laughed,  to  be 
sure.  But  she  could  hardly  stand  there  and  laugh  at 
the  wind  till  she  started  for  home.  No  need  to, 
either!  She  was  strong  enough  of  will  to  stand  be- 
side him  again  looking  down  at  him  quite  calmly, 
showing  nothing  of  the  delight  at  the  mere  sight 
of  him,  that  made  a  mist  at  moments  between  his  face 
and  her  eyes;  showing  nothing  even  when  the  traitor 
pity  jumped  out  and  sent  an  arrow  quivering  through 
her;  showing  nothing  .  .  . 

After  all,  it  was  her  own  device  that  undid  her. 

14 


210  ZANDRIE 


For  she  had  taught  him  of  late  to  arm  himself  against 
quite  another  than  a  mood  of  teasing,  which  puzzled 
him  the  more  now,  perhaps,  because  he  was  in  bodily 
pain  and  must  have  known  that  she  knew  it.  And 
so,  as  he  lay  with  his  hands  clasped  beneath  his  head, 
she  saw  his  face  grow  wistful  with  a  question  that 
groped  for  its  answer,  till,  losing  itself  at  last,  it 
turned  into  a  yearning.  She  thrust  her  hands  behind 
her,  but  to  no  purpose;  impulses  to  caress  throbbed 
along  every  fibre  of  her  body,  getting  the  upper  hand 
over  warnings  of  fear.  And  then  when  of  a  sudden 
his  eyes  opened  to  her,  without  reserve  at  last,  no 
longer  baffling,  but  summoning,  bidding  her  come  near, 
—  the  fear  itself  was  gone.  The  wall  was  gone. 
She  thought  it  was  gone  forever.  And  so,  in  an  ec- 
stacy  too  deep  for  fear  to  reach,  she  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  his  couch  and  bent  over  him,  slowly,  very 
slowly,  till  the  flood  of  passion  that  had  been  forced 
back  throughout  the  long  weeks,  burst  its  bounds,  tear- 
ing away  all  but  consciousness  itself.  With  the  cry 
of  his  name  she  took  his  temples  between  her  hands 
and  pressed  her  cheek  against  his  forehead. 

For  a  few  seconds  he  lay  passive;  then  he  pulled 
her  down  to  him,  crushing  the  laurel  between  them, 
and  kissed  her  lips;  and  though  she  spoke  hardly 
above  a  whisper,  all  her  stifled  passion  made  answer 
in  the  two  words,  "  My  master !  " 

At  last  he  tried  to  put  her  from  him,  with  hands 
that  trembled,  but  she  caught  them  in  her  own.  "  Ju- 


THE    NORTHWEST    WIND       211 

lian !  you  understand  at  last !  We  've  lived  for  this. 
There  '11  be  no  more  loneliness  —  only  happiness  be- 
yond belief." 

But  he  was  staring  up  at  her  as  in  a  maze  of  grow- 
ing misery  that  took  the  blood  from  his  lips,  and  he 
tried  to  draw  away  his  hands. 

"  We  '11  marry  each  other," —  she  laughed  a  soft 
little  laugh — " — marry  like  the  Lyndes.  Don't  you 
understand  ?  You  '11  let  me  live  with  you  now  and 
talk  about  my  love,  and  there  '11  be  no  more  forbidden 
subject.  I  '11  help  you  in  all  things,  my  darling, —  my 
darling!  I  '11  make  life  a  good  thing  for  you.  I  can! 
O  yes,  but  I  can !  " 

The  idea  of  their  marrying  —  which  meant,  their 
living  together  —  seemed  so  simple,  so  inevitable  of  a 
sudden,  that  she  laughed  to  think  it  had  never  occurred 
to  either  of  them  before !  "  Of  course,"  she  said, 
"  we  Ve  lived  just  for  this.  Why  have  n't  we  known 
it?  Stupid  us!" 

He  wrenched  his  hands  from  hers,  to  cover  his 
face,  but  she  kissed  them  and  kissed  his  hair,  thinking 
only  that  he  was  in  pain,  for  which  she  could  not 
grieve  much  just  now.  Pain  was  a  slight  thing,  of  a 
sudden,  compared  with  the  great  matter  of  their  love. 
"  It  will  go,"  she  said,  smoothing  his  hair.  "  When 
Zandrie  comes  to  stay,  it  will  have  to  go.  O  dearie! 
my  beautiful!  think  of  the  good  times!  No  more 
dreadful,  empty  weeks  one  can  scarcely  breathe 
through  till  Sunday.  No  more  running  to  my  hill 


212  ZANDRIE 


from  the  fear  of  you !  But  we  '11  go  together  —  O 
yes,  Carter  can  manage  that!  —  and  eat  our  lunch  in 
the  moss  by  a  great  rock  where  the  brown  bird  sings 
and  the  little  gray  gnomes  will  come  out  of  the  cracks 
to  pick  up  the  crumbs.  To  think  —  to  think  that  Ju- 
lian will  be  Zandrie's  husband.  It  sounds  very 
strange,  but  I  like  it!  I  was  thinking  of  you  always, 
of  course  —  always  —  but  never  quite  so.  Hus- 
bands never  seemed  interesting  till  this  very  minute! 
Dearie,  look  up  and  laugh  with  me !  " 

She  had  been  looking  away  from  him  for  a  minute, 
just  because  it  would  be  such  fun  at  the  end  of  the 
minute!  But  the  fun  failed  her.  She  even  forgot 
that  she  had  expected  it,  what  she  found  in  his  eyes 
was  so  nearly  tragic,  the  whole  set  of  his  face  so  grim 
with  unspoken  misery.  No  pain  of  body,  that:  and 
when  he  covered  his  face  again  at  the  end  of  the  long 
silence,  and  the  muscles  of  his  hands  grew  tense,  and 
his  breath  struggled  from  beneath  almost  in  sobs,  her 
joy  fell  into  the  clutch  of  a  nameless  fear.  "  What 
is  it?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  that  shook. 

At  last,  "  I  could  n't  help  it,"  he  said,  his  hands  still 
over  his  face.  "  It 's  been  a  long  fight."  And  after 
another  pause,  "  I  can't  marry  you." 

"Why?" 

"  I  won't." 

"Why?     Why?" 

There  was  a  longer  pause  yet.  "  You  're  just  a  lit- 
tle girl  —  a  child.  It  would  be  wicked  to  marry  you." 


THE    NORTHWEST    WIND        213 

"But  why?  Of  course  we  must  marry!"  She 
had  never  asked  herself  whether  he  loved  her,  and 
she  did  not  ask  it  now,  taking  it  for  granted. 

"  You  're  a  child,"  he  repeated.  "  You  're  as  wild 
as  the  wind.  When  you  came  in  —  There  's  all  out- 
doors about  you  still  —  always.  It  would  be — " 

"  Wait !  —  I  know  the  reasons  without  your  telling 
me." 

"  All  the  better  then." 

"  Yes,  all  the  better !  —  /  '11  tell  them  to  you.  I  'd 
been  running  in  the  wind,  and  when  I  came  in,  my  hair 
was  dreadfully  mussed  and  I  looked  wonderfully  hap- 
py. Why  yes !  because,  you  see,  I  'd  finished  the  long, 
hard  way  I  'd  set  myself  to  go.  O  but  it  was  long! 
Foolish  me!  And  so  when  I  came  in,  glad  beyond 
belief  just  to  see  you —  Oh!  and  you  think  if  we 
were  married  —  just  because  you  're  lying  here  where 
I  could  come  running  back  sure  to  find  you,  if  I  had  to 
go  away  for  a  minute —  Dear  heart,  what  fun  it 
will  be  just  not  to  be  starving  for  sight  of  you! 
.  .  .  Oh,  I  know  the  silly  reasons,  you  see  —  the 
silly  reasons  that  are  no  reasons  at  all." 

"  You  don't.  But  try  for  once  —  imagine  —  look ! 
Tied  to  this!  Married  to  this!  You  can't  know  what 
it  means.  No  woman  can,  I  reckon.  But  try  just  for 
once  to  imagine, —  and  then — " 

"  I  '11  try,"  she  interrupted.     "  Now  look  at  me." 

He  let  her  take  his  hands  from  his  face,  and  as  he 
looked,  there  flickered  across  it  a  dim  reflection  of 


214  ZANDRIE 


her  own  radiance.  But  for  a  second  only.  "  I  knew 
you  couldn't  even  imagine  it,"  he  said;  and  then, 
"  You  're  shivering.  Shut  the  window." 

She  obeyed,  not  knowing  what  she  did.  And  when 
she  started  to  seat  herself  again  on  the  edge  of  his 
couch,  he  forbade  her;  and  there  was  a  quiet  in  his 
voice,  that,  more  than  any  vehemence,  struck  her  numb 
with  dismay.  His  hands  clenched  the  laurel  against 
his  breast.  His  face  was  turned  towards  the  wall  so 
that  she  saw  only  his  profile,  which  she  watched  as  a 
whipped  dog  its  master.  She  was  frightened  chiefly 
perhaps  because  she  was  so  puzzled. 

"  I  've  been  all  to  blame,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I 
thought  I  was  strong  enough,  but  .  .  .  But  it 's 
not  too  late.  If  you  'd  been  older,  it  might  have  been 
different  —  everything  different,  perhaps.  But  now, 
—  there  's  nothing  for  it  but  to  keep  out  of  each  oth- 
er's way.  Don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Not  see  each  other,  I  mean.  You  —  must  n't 
come  any  more,  I  mean." 

"  Not  see  you  any  more !  .  .  .  But  that  sounds 
like  nonsense.  Julian!  why  Julian!  —  if  you  meant 
that — "  She  felt  the  blood  leave  her  lips.  "Don't 
you  love  me,  then  ?  " 

No  answer  to  that. 

"  You  mean  you  "want  me  —  to  go  away  ?  " 

No  answer  to  that  either. 


THE    NORTHWEST    WIND       215 

"  A  minute  ago  — "  She  bent  over  him  again ;  and 
then,  "  Ah,  foolish  Julian !  what  have  you  been  say- 
ing?" 

He  held  her  away,  but  the  blue  flame  in  his  eyes 
burned  the  numbness  out  of  her.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I 
love  you.  I  love  you.  I  did  n't  mean  to  say  it  ever, 
or  show  it.  But  —  how  could  I  help  loving  you! 
You  came  in  at  the  door  there  —  you !  —  one  day 
when  I  was  loneliest.  If  you  knew  how  I  was  want- 
ing just  you!  I  couldn't  help  it;  of  course  I  loved 
you.  .  .  .  And  then  .  .  ." 

"Then?" 

"  Then  you  thought  you  loved  me." 

"  I  loved  you  first.     That 's  why  I  came." 

He  paid  no  heed  to  that.  "  But  it 's  because  I  love 
you  —  understand  ?  —  because  I  love  you,  I  forbid 
you  to  love  me  —  waste  yourself  —  your  beautiful 
youth  —  waste  it  on  this.  That  would  be  too  ironical. 
But  it  shan't  happen.  It 's  not  too  late." 

"  But  it  is,  it  is !  O  how  little  you  know  me  then, 
—  you,  my  very  self!  The  love  for  you  is  I  myself. 
Can't  you  see  I  was  made  for  that?  If  you  forbade 
that,  you  'd  forbid  me ;  but  you  can't  do  either.  You 
can't,  dear,  though  I  almost  wish  you  could  if  you  'd 
be  happier  so!  But  see, —  why  should  you  want  to! 
I  've  seen  men's  faces  —  hundreds  now  —  but  none 
like  yours ;  and  yet  I  look  in  hope  through  every  crowd 
for  a  face  that  will  just  remind  me  of  yours,  I  starve 


216  ZANDRIE 


for  it  so.  When  I  saw  you  here  my  life  began.  I 
thought  I  knew  the  joy  of  life  till  I  kissed  your  fore- 
head that  morning,  but  — " 

"Stop,  dear." 

"How  can  you  call  such  wealth  a  waste?  Yet 
you  've  said  you  loved  me.  ...  And  you  never 
meant  to  say  it  ?  That 's  strange.  But  I  knew  al- 
ready, of  course !  "  She  laughed  happily  once  more. 
"  What  would  you  do  then  if  I  went  away?  " 

"  What  I  did  before." 

"Alone  with  your  miserable  life;  yes,  day  after 
day  in  this  room,  all  alone  with  hopelessness,  without 
any  Zandrie.  Dear  heart,  what  nonsense  to  talk  — 
even  to  talk  about  what  would  kill  the  happiness  of  us 
two !  —  of  what  could  n't  be !  —  for  I  love  you  —  O 
yes,  I  love  you  into  safety !  " 

"  To-day.     You  love  me  to-day, —  I  know  it." 

"  Forever  —  beyond  God's  reach." 

"  For  a  few  months.  You  're  very  young,  you  see ; 
and  I  was  the  first  man  you  met.  And  you  were  sorry. 
I  know  what  pity  can  do  with  people  like  you. 
.  .  .  You  '11  meet  other  men  soon  now,  and  then 
—  then  you  '11  see  I  was  right." 

"  Sorry,  you  say!  Yes,  for  the  beautiful  body  God 
somehow  had  the  heart  to  hurt.  Oh,  if  I  could  have 
known  what  was  in  his  thought,  I  'd  have  lived  a  nun 
to  pray  him  from  it!  But  you  —  pity  you?  —  when 
you  're  stronger  than  I  and  I  lay  my  will  at  your  feet  ? 
O  Mother  of  God!  is  it  pity  makes  me  do  that,  you 


THE    NORTHWEST    WIND       217 

say  ?  "  She  was  pleading  for  what  she  valued  more 
than  her  life,  and  arguments  crowded  to  her  aid.  If 
he  would  only  meet  her  eyes,  she  thought,  she  could 
compel  him  to  hear  her  logic ;  but  his  face  was  turned 
to  the  wall  again.  "  There  's  something  you  forget," 
she  said. 

"What?" 

"That  I  saw  you  when  I  was  a  child, —  before  it 
happened, —  when  you  were  on  horseback.  Remem- 
ber? And  you  laughed  and  called  back  to  me  and 
rode  into  the  woods,  and  I  jumped  down  from  the 
wall  to  follow.  How  could  I  be  sorry  for  you  then? 
But  I  loved  you  then, —  oh,  from  the  second  I  heard 
your  laugh.  And  you  can  laugh  still;  and  when  I 
come  to  stay — " 

"  You  're  a  child  still,"  he  interrupted. 

"In  some  things,  yes ;  but  not  in  love.  You 
should  n't  have  looked  at  me  so,  that  day  I  took  you 
to  the  woods,  if  you  wanted  me  to  stay  a  child.  It 
was  you  shut  the  door  on  my  childhood.  You  did  n't 
mean  to,  of  course ;  but  I  'm  glad  you  did.  I  would  n't 
go  back  to  poor,  barren  childhood  for  the  world  — 
do  you  think  so  ?  After  this?  But  you  were  my  hap- 
piness even  when  I  was  a  child.  Just  the  touch  of 
you  hurt  me  with  happiness  even  then,  as  it  hurts  now, 
somewhere  inside  of  me  —  just  the  happiness  when 
you  touch  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  don't  you  love  me  at  all 
so?" 

He  answered  not  at  all,  but  a  second  later  she  was 


218  ZANDRIE 


kneeling  beside  him,  laughing  softly  again,  because  — 
well,  for  several  reasons  that  seemed  good:  for  one, 
because  the  grip  of  his  arms  allowed  her  scarcely 
breath  enough  to  laugh  with;  for  another,  because  he 
was  kissing  her;  for  another,  because  she  knew  that 
he  kissed  her  wholly  against  his  own  grim,  absurd 
will.  "  Think,"  she  said,  when  she  could  speak  at  all, 
" —  in  all  the  ages  we  've  loved  each  other,  think  of 
the  time  wasted !  Think  what  we  've  got  to  make 
up!" 

But  before  he  could  say  what  he  might  be  thinking, 
some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Wait !  "  he  called.  And  then,  "  Forgive  me,"  he 
whispered.  "  I  meant  it ;  but  —  To-morrow  — 
come  to-morrow.  I  can't  say  it  to-day." 

"  To-morrow !     I  can  come  again  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  can  say  it  then.  I  've  got  to  have  time,  that 's 
all." 

"Say  it—  ?" 

"  Good-by, —  yes.  I  meant  it  —  what  I  said.  I 
meant  it."  And  because  of  the  break  in  his  voice, 
and  in  spite  of  the  delirious  happiness  of  the  past  min- 
ute, in  which  he  had  seemed  to  come  to  his  senses 
too  utterly  ever  to  relapse,  she  knew  that  he  meant  it 
—  to  put  her  away  from  him.  But  she  was  still  too 
happy  to  be  wholly  afraid. 

"  It 's  Carter  at  the  door,"  he  said.  "  You  must 
go." 

"  Till  to-morrow,"  she  whispered.     "  When  I  kiss 


THE    NORTHWEST    WIND       219 

you  to-morrow  .  .  .  you  '11  see  aright.  You  '11 
love  me,  to-morrow." 

"  I  '11  love  you  to-morrow,  too.  Yes.  ...  Go 
now.  Go  quick !  " 

"  To-morrow  you  '11  see  aright,"  she  repeated,  her 
hand  at  the  door-knob. 

But  his  arm  was  crooked  over  his  eyes,  and  he  made 
no  answer. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SHOWING    WHICH    HAD    THE    STRONGER    WILL 

In  the  morning  Carter  brought  a  note  that  bade  her 
come  at  five.  It  said  absolutely  nothing  but  that  and 
was  signed  "  Yours,  J.  M.  F.",  and  naturally  set  her 
asking  why  a  man  not  frantically  busy  should  write  a 
note  like  a  telegram  to  a  body  who  knew  he  loved  her 
because  he  had  just  told  her  so.  Even  though  he  in- 
tended to  put  a  stop  to  it  by  sending  her  out  of  his 
sight,  the  love  was  meanwhile  a  fact  recognized  by 
both,  about  which  neither  was  to  be  deceived  by  a 
game  of  pretending.  It  was  the  queerness  of  him  that 
dismayed  her;  the  incredible  queerness  that,  in  the 
first  place,  refused  the  gift  of  herself.  But  she  would 
make  him  accept,  of  course.  She  had  a  will,  too,  that 
could  make  a  brave  stand  against  his,  though  it  had 
not  often  conquered.  Had  it  ever?  She  shied  from 
that  question. 

The  trouble  seemed  to  be  that  he  was  fighting  in  the 
dark,  with  something  she  could  not  see.  And  if  he 
saw  it  clearly  himself,  he  would  stop  fighting.  No 
doubt  of  that.  So,  that  was  all  one  needed  to  do, — 
to  give  him  light,  at  whose  coming  the  ghosts  he 

220 


THE    STRONGER   WILL        221 

fought  with  must  vanish.  And  have  it  he  must;  for, 
whether  mistaken  or  not,  so  long  as  he  fought  at  all, 
he  was  bound  to  have  the  better  of  her.  For  her  will 
had  never  won  yet.  Facing  the  question  at  last,  she 
answered  truly,  though  making  excuse  for  herself  that 
he  was  older.  But  even  while  trying  hardest  to  be- 
lieve that  desperation  would  lend  her  strength,  or  at 
least  the  wit,  to  make  him  see  aright, —  even  while 
she  vowed  to  herself  not  to  leave  him, —  doubt  of  her- 
self was  gnawing  at  the  root  of  her  courage.  The 
mere  fact  that  she  could  not  understand  him,  robbed 
what  fighting  spirit  she  might  otherwise  have  had. 

At  four  o'clock  three  young  girls  called  on  her, — 
"  awfully  nice  girls,"  Mrs.  Lynde  said, —  who  went 
away  agreeing  that  Zandrie  was  awfully  queer.  But 
then,  she  did  stare  perfectly  frankly  at  the  clock,  think- 
ing "  why  write  a  note  like  a  telegram  ?  "  or,  "  what 
can  one  say  to  make  the  blind  see  ?  "  instead  of  at- 
tending to  what  her  callers  were  asking;  so  that  her 
answers  must  have  been  a  little  wild. 

At  quarter  to  five  she  set  out  to  him,  clinging  to  a 
new  determination  to  act  the  part  of  one  who  did  not 
love  him  —  absurd  device  to  which  she  pinned  the 
shreds  of  her  hope.  She  would  meet  him  on  the 
ground  that  his  note  had  appointed,  and  greet  him  as 
though  yesterday  had  not  been.  She  would  seem  to 
have  forgotten. 

But  at  the  first  sight  of  him,  her  forces  fell  into 
disorder,  his  own  were  plainly  in  such  good  array ;  her 


222  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


wits  reeled;  and  when  he  took  her  hand  in  silence, 
master  of  himself,  she  knew  that  he  was  master  of  her 
too.  Yet  there  were  shadows  under  his  eyes  that  told 
of  a  grievous  vigil. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  and  she  obeyed.  He  gripped 
the  arms  of  his  chair  and  looked  away. 

"  You  '11  see  it  as  I  do,  some  day,"  he  said  at  last ; 
and  she  caught  her  breath,  knowing  that  it  was  com- 
ing now  —  what  she  dreaded  most  in  all  the  world. 

Had  he  expected  an  outbreak  ?  —  a  passionate  pro- 
test ?  He  turned  and  searched  her  face. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said. 

"What 's  the  use?     You  know  already." 

"  Say  it.     You  have  n't  said  it  yet." 

"  Yes,  I  '11  say  it.  You  must  n't  come  any  more. 
We  must  say  good-by.  I  Ve  known  for  weeks  we  'd 
have  to  do  it.  We  ought  to  have  done  it  sooner.  I 
ought,  I  mean.  For  it 's  all  my  fault.  It 's  my  fault 
that  there  came  to  be  any  need  of  —  this.  I  had  no 
business  to  love  you.  No  right.  It  was  incredibly 
weak  of  me  to  tell  you.  But  now  .  .  .  You 
know  it 's  because  I  love  you, —  this  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  I  reckon  you  don't  understand  it  now,  but  you  will 
some  day.  .  .  .  Good-by,"  he  said  after  another 
pause,  holding  out  his  hand. 

Then  Zandrie  rose  as  in  a  dream,  and  took  it.  Both 
their  hands  were  cold. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  he  said. 


THE    STRONGER    WILL         223 

"  Good-by,"  was  all  that  she  answered.  She  began 
to  walk  towards  the  door.  For  it  was  a  dream,  of 
course ;  that  was  why  she  was  yielding  without  even  a 
struggle.  It  was  unthinkable  —  it  could  n't  be,  that 
he  was  sending  her  —  sending  Zandrie  —  away  from 
him  forever,  to  a  misery,  therefore,  that  one  could 
neither  name  nor  imagine;  that  he  meant  that  they 
should  not  see  each  other  again.  If  that  were  his 
thought  —  if  it  could  be  true  —  then  all  the  world 
was  mad.  She  stopped  at  the  door,  turned  slowly,  and 
looked  at  him. 

"  Zandrie !  "  he  pleaded,  "  come  back,  just  for  a  mo- 
ment—  just  till  you  understand.  Say  at  least  you 
believe  I  love  you." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  seemed 
to  come  from  somewhere  outside  of  her. 

"  Then  —  I'm  sorry,"  he  answered.  "  And  yet,  it's 
as  well  perhaps,  after  all.  I  had  no  right  to  call  you 
back.  You  were  right  in  going.  You're  stronger 
than—" 

"  Strong?  O  no;  nor  merciless  either.  I  don't 
believe  —  that's  all."  And  she  shut  her  eyes,  grop- 
ing for  the  door-knob.  "  Why,  if  it  were  true,  what 
you've  been  saying  —  if  this  were  real,  what  —  what 
would  become  of  us  ?  " 

The  question  seemed  unanswerable,  but  he  was 
ready.  "  Some  day  you  '11  find  another  man  —  who 
can  make  you  happy ;  whom  you  '11  —  whom  you  '11 
love  better  than  you  could  ever  have  cared  for  me. 


224  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


Who  can  give  you  the  sort  of  life  you  ought  to  have, 
and  —  and  all  that." 

Would  the  dream  never  end  ?  She  must  wake  soon, 
or  die  of  the  misery  of  it.  Yet  even  tears  refused 
their  witness  to  reality.  Then  as  she  stood  clinging 
to  the  door  to  keep  from  swaying,  the  idea  came,  that 
if  this  was  indeed  a  dream,  she  could  do  what  she 
chose.  She  shook  her  head  as  though  to  free  it  from 
a  cobweb.  "  I  '11  kiss  you  good-by." 

What  was  it  broke  the  spell  ?  —  the  light  that  leaped 
to  his  eyes?  or  the  vibrant  voice  that  bade  her  come? 
At  that,  she  ran  to  him  and  fell  on  her  knees,  to 
snatch  his  hands  in  both  hers  and  hide  her  face 
against  them.  "  Now  I  'm  safe,"  she  sobbed.  "  I 
have  him !  I  touch  him !  O  Virgin,  I  '11  hold  him 
tight!" 

When  the  paroxysm  of  her  sobbing  was  spent,  he 
bade  her  look  up ;  but  she  only  sighed  and  knelt  quiet, 
listening  for  his  voice  again.  It  came  after  another 
long  silence.  "  Look  up,  beloved."  And  she  raised 
her  head  in  ecstacy. 

"  You  believe  I  love  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  O  yes,  yes !  " 

"  Then  help  me." 

"  That  again  ?  Just  as  we  were  beginning  to  be 
happy  ?  Dear  heart,  let 's  be  happy  just  this  one 
hour." 

"  You  're  going  to  be  happy  always,  if  I  can  work  it. 
.  .  .  I  had  time  to  find  out  what  happiness  means. 


THE    STRONGER    WILL         225 

Mere  freedom  's  happiness,  and  it 's  enough  that  one 
of  us  lost  that,  is  n't  it?  Your  life  is  n't  going  to  be 
spoiled  too, —  by  mine.  Perhaps  you  do  love  me  now 
as  well  as  a  child  can;  I  reckon  you  really  do.  But 
it 's  because  you  're  a  child,  don't  you  see,  that  you 
can  go  and  forget  —  these  weeks.  You  must,  and 
you  can.  Heaven  knows,  the  idea  of  my  marrying 
any  woman  —  I  buried  that  seven  years  ago  —  for- 
ever, so  I  thought.  But  you  —  to  marry  you  — "  His 
voice  broke  on  that  word  and  she  leaped  into  the 
breach. 

"  But  I  —  yes,  that 's  another  story ;  for  I  was  sent, 
you  see,  just  to  give  back  what  you  thought  was 
buried  —  yes,  and  to  find  it  myself  —  the  first  joy  in 
all  my  life.  And—" 

He  covered  her  lips  with  his  hand,  and  she  quivered 
under  the  touch,  forgetting  to  finish.  "  What  you 
were  sent  to  me  for,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  answer  much 
better  than  you, —  nor  how  you  could  possibly  come 
to  think  you  loved  me.  But  I  'm  right  sure  of  this, 
that  it 's  not  too  late.  Wait !  —  I  say  it 's  not.  May- 
be it  '11  be  hard  at  first  for  you  as  well  as  me ;  but  only 
a  little  while, —  and  you  '11  not  be  a  coward.  You  '11 
be  splendid  and  strong  for  the  little  time  you  've  any 
need  of  courage.  You  see,  you  were  made  for  so 
much  bigger  happiness  than  I  could  ever  give.  And 
the  day  will  come  when  I  '11  hear  of  it,  and  be  glad, 
and  you  '11  justify  me  then." 

She  shook  her  head.     "  For  one  little  moment  it 

15 


226  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


seemed  as  if,  just  for  the  joy  of  doing  your  will,  I 
could  even  go.  But  I  can't.  But  I  can't.  All  the 
world  with  you  not  there,  would  be  a  frightful,  barren 
place  in  which  I  'd  die.  I  'd  be  wicked  without  you. 
I  'd  be  afraid  without  you.  I  'd  come  back." 

"Not  if  I  forbade—" 

"  Yes,  I  know  it !  I  know !  I  understand  noth- 
ing else  in  all  the  world  but  that  I  need  you.  I  must 
keep  you.  I  must  make  you  see.  You  're  looking 
through  some  awful,  twisted  glass.  Julian!  "  and  her 
voice  shot  up  to  a  higher  note,  "  it 's  for  my  life!  O 
see  aright !  "  She  caught  his  hands  again  and  laid 
her  head  on  his  breast.  And  at  that,  victory  turned 
to  look  at  her,  as  she  had  looked  for  a  few  delirious 
minutes,  the  day  before.  For  Julian's  answer  was  a 
sharp  intake  of  breath,  and  he  turned  his  face  aside, 
and  she  felt  him  tremble.  Yet  when  she  looked  up  at 
last  and  read  the  resolve  in  his  eyes  —  resolve  such  as 
a  man  grips  as  he  would  hold  the  blade  of  a  sword, 
with  a  will  only  just  stronger  than  the  pain  that  the 
grip  costs  him  —  then  fear  beat  out  the  last  of  her 
fighting  strength,  and  "  Oh,  you  're  strange !  "  she 
whispered. 

"  Do  you  think  it 's  easy  ?  For  heaven's  sake,  go 
now,  now!  If  you  love  me,  you  can  prove  it  so. 
And  if  you  —  if  you  come  back," —  his  voice  was 
steady  now  — "  you  won't  come  back ;  I  have  faith  in 
you, —  but  if  you  should,  even  once,  I  'd  go  away  my- 


THE    STRONGER   WILL        227 

self, —  out  of  town  somewhere,  where  you  could  n't 
find  me." 

She  believed  that  he  would  keep  his  word,  and 
bowed  her  head  till  her  forehead  touched  her  knees. 

When  she  rose  at  last,  "  And  you  say  I  must  for- 
get it  all,"  she  murmured,  "  forget  your  face, —  every 
line  of  it?  and  the  smile  of  your  eyes,  and  your  voice, 
and  the  touch  of  your  hands?  .  .  .  Queer,  how 
you  can  hate  me  so.  You  were  kind  when  I  was  a 
child.  God  was  cruel  to  let  me  see  you ;  he  must  have 
known  what  you  really  were.  .  .  .  Why  do  you 
look  at  me  so  ?  I  'm  glad,  glad !  "  and  her  voice  rose 
to  a  cry.  "  If  I  've  hurt  you,  I  'm  glad !  I  '11  remem- 
ber at  least  that  you  can  suffer  too.  If  I  've  hurt  you, 
perhaps  there  's  a  God  in  heaven.  .  .  .  O  what 
am  I  doing !  This  is  n't  Zandrie.  See,  I  'm  calm 
now,  and  strong  too,  as  you  said.  I  can  say  good-by. 
I  'm  not  a  child.  You  were  wrong  to  call  me  a  child." 
Her  hand  crept  out  to  his  hair.  "  Look  up,  then. 
Can't  you  say  good-by,  like  me  ?  " 

"  Good-by,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  held  nothing  of 
the  Julian  she  had  known.  But  after  that,  he  looked 
up,  and  his  eyes  held  her  so  that  it  was  not  till  after  he 
had  bowed  his  head  again  that  she  could  stir. 

She  groped  her  way  to  the  door. 

Outside  the  house,  on  the  front  steps,  she  sank 
down,  leaning  her  head  against  a  post  of  the  little 
porch  till  a  woman  who  passed  turned  to  look  at  her. 


228  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


Then  Zandrie  pulled  herself  to  her  feet  and  walked 
away. 

To  the  woods !  To  the  woods !  —  to  creep,  like  a 
hurt  animal,  under  some  friendly  bush,  close  to  the 
fragrant  moss  that  hides  one's  tears  without  a  ques- 
tion; to  the  woods,  where  the  rocks  are  all  but  done 
with  the  toil  of  change,  and  growing  things  are  at 
peace  because  their  toil  is  obedience  to  a  law  that  is 
all  their  desire  and  all  their  knowledge. 

And  when  she  stood  on  her  hill  at  last,  she  looked 
up  into  its  pines,  pleading  mutely  for  comfort  —  for 
belief,  at  least,  and  so  for  tears;  for  if  she  could  be- 
lieve in  the  cause  of  her  woe,  she  could  also  weep, 
and  the  tears  would  loosen  from  her  throat  the  grip 
of  an  anguish  that  was  throttling  her  with  cold,  ever 
tightening  fingers.  But  for  that  numbing  of  all  sense 
of  reality,  she  must  have  sobbed  as  she  passed  through 
the  town.  She  had  run  past  the  Lawson  farm  lest 
the  call  of  her  name  in  some  familiar  little  voice  should 
prick  the  bubble  of  disbelief.  But  safe  in  the  woods, 
she  prayed  for  belief  and  tears.  And  it  came,  when 
her  hand  brushed  across  a  mass  of  cool,  sticky  blos- 
soms, and  she  saw  the  laurels  beside  and  all  about 
her ;  and  "  Julian !  Julian !  Julian !  "  she  sobbed. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   TWINS 

Whether  or  not  Julian  was  right  in  calling  her  a 
child,  she  was  past  the  age  of  despair  that  beats 
about  in  the  dark  till  it  stumbles  by  chance  against 
a  door,  and  the  door  bursts  open  to  the  light,  and  the 
dark  is  at  once  forgotten.  Though  she  tossed  at  first 
on  a  sea  of  grief,  blown  this  way  by  doubt  of  Julian's 
love,  that  by  bewilderment,  there  began  soon  to  stream 
across  the  waters  a  little  light,  very  small  at  first  and 
far  away,  then  nearer  and  steadily  clearer  till  she  saw 
its  very  form.  And  having  seen,  she  went  to  her 
hill  and  wrote  a  letter. 

"  JULIAN  ! 

"  Has  n't  God  taught  you  better  yet  ?  Can  you  still  think 
my  life  would  be  spoiled  by  our  friendship? — that  it  would 
be  less  well  with  me  if  I  had  your  brave  self  to  run  to  for 
help  ?  Why  Julian,  I  've  done  nothing  good  these  eight 
days,  but  only  wondered  how  you  could  be  so  good  and  yet 
so  blind.  I  Ve  wondered  till  my  poor  brain  has  cried  for 
mercy.  And  the  very  afternoon  I  left  you  I  came  to  the 
woods  till  evening,  so  that  the  Lyndes  asked  questions,  and 
I  said  I  had  been  to  the  farm.  And  on  Sunday  I  left  the 
house  pretending  to  go  to  you  as  usual,  and  lied  again.  I 

229 


230  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


never  lied  so  badly  before.  But  I  knew  I  'd  be  wicked  with- 
out you.  You  see  what  I  do.  I  want  you  so  that  I  think 
I  could  do  almost  any  bad  thing  to  get  you  back.  The 
Lyndes  are  dear  and  kind,  but  I  can't  tell  them  my  trouble. 
It  was  hard  for  me  to  speak  of  you  even  when  I  was  a  child. 
Does  that  seem  queer  ?  It  does  n't  to  me  any  more.  It 
seems  as  though  I  were  beginning  to  understand  all  of  life 
except  you  who  are  my  own  life.  But  if  I  could  speak  of 
you,  who  have  now  become  my  grief,  what  use  would  it  be  ? 
They  have  each  other,  you  see;  they've  never  been  lonely; 
they  aren't  like  me  but  like  children,  they  are  so  happy. 
Let  me  come  back  and  I  '11  promise  faithfully  never  to  do  a 
thing  you  forbid.  I  '11  try,  if  you  say  I  must,  not  even  to 
love  you.  Julian,  have  you  ever  needed  help?  If  so,  then 
let  me  come  and  help  me,  for  I  need  you  and  you  're  stronger 
than 

ZANDRIE." 

There  could  be  but  one  answer  to  that,  she  believed ; 
and  she  sang  all  the  way  back  to  town.  Life  was  a 
wonder  still! 

The  Lyndes  had  company  at  dinner  that  evening,  in 
whose  honor  the  table  was  set  in  the  garden  under  an 
arbor  of  honeysuckle  and  red  roses,  and  everyone  was 
merry,  but  Zandrie  most  of  all.  The  guests  were 
Messrs.  Marshall  and  Lee  Wyndam.  It  was  what  she 
had  dreaded  and  prayed  for  throughout  the  week, 
this  coming  of  the  twins,  whom  Mrs.  Lynde  had  been 
expecting  for  the  two  weeks'  visit  that  they  usually 
made  her  at  the  beginning  of  their  summer  vacation. 
This  summer,  however,  Julian  had  suddenly  decreed 
that  they  were  to  spend  those  two  weeks  with  him  at 


THE   TWINS  231 

Mrs.  Bright's;  for  one  of  her  rooms  was  vacant  now, 
he  wrote,  and  Mrs.  Lynde  had  a  guest  already;  the 
matter  was  settled.  And  it  appeared  to  be  settled, 
though  Mrs.  Lynde  protested  that  she  and  Foggy  were 
much  too  fond  of  the  boys  to  give  them  up,  and 
that  there  was  no  earthly  reason  why  they  should,  as 
the  house  was  large  enough  to  hold  two  more  guests 
besides  Zandrie.  She  even  went  to  argue  with  him 
in  person.  But  he  was  firm ;  "  obstinate,"  she  re- 
ported ;  "  absolutely  mulish,  in  fact,  and  absurd.  His 
refusal  was  a  whim."  Even  her  attempt  at  a  com- 
promise failed,  and  he  would  not  hear  of  their  visit- 
ing her  for  a  day, —  for  more,  in  fact,  than  dinner. 
"  Try  your  arts,"  she  said  on  that  Sunday  when  Zan- 
drie set  out  as  though  for  her  usual  visit;  and  when 
she  returned,  had  she  prevailed?  Mrs.  Lynde  asked. 
No?  Then  she  had  at  least  found  out  why  he  re- 
fused? Could  she  guess  why  ?  But  deceitful  Zandrie 
shook  her  head,  knowing  of  course  that  he  must  be 
trying,  by  keeping  the  boys  away,  to  lift  a  stone  out 
of  her  Road  to  Forgetting;  that  she  herself  was  the 
heart  of  his  "  whim."  In  a  few  days,  though,  after 
reading  her  letter,  he  would  no  longer  see  need  of 
keeping  reminders  of  himself  out  of  her  way.  He 
could  n't  deliberately  let  her  be  wicked  without  him. 
He  would  call  her  back  and  let  the  twins  stay  with 
the  Lyndes  forever,  if  they  wanted. 

Any  one  seeing  Zandrie  dress  for  that  little  dinner 
might  have  been  excused  for  labeling  her  vain,  since 


232  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


it  is  a  fact  that  she  chose  her  gown  only  after  a  vast 
amount  of  advice  from  her  mirror.  And  there  was 
room  for  choice  too,  as  Mrs.  Lynde  had  been  buying 
pretty  clothes  for  her  with  the  same  sort  of  delight 
that  she  once  took  in  dressing  her  dolls,  and  Zandrie 
accepted  them  all  with  unprotesting  glee.  Her  final 
choice  to-night  was  a  dress  that  had  the  deepest  pink 
in  its  little  roses,  because  she  rather  thought  boys  liked 
color,  and  it  was  important  for  reasons  of  her  own 
that  these  particular  boys  should  like  everything  about 
her. 

They  were  good  looking  youngsters  of  thirteen,  not 
enough  alike  to  make  trouble  for  their  relatives  or  even 
their  friends.  Lee  was  her  favorite  even  before  he 
had  said  a  word  —  just  because  he  was,  she  said, — 
and  in  spite  of  Marshall's  having  lighter  hair. 

Marshall  was  spokesman  at  first,  acknowledged  by 
his  brother's  respectful  eyes  as  the  man  of  savoir  faire ; 
though  it  was  Lee  who  started  the  talk  after  they  sat 
down  at  dinner  with  "  Gee,  but  this  is  nicer  than  Mrs. 
Bright's  mess-room,  is  n't  it !  " —  Marshall's  only  an- 
swer being  a  reminder  under  the  table,  where  he 
kicked  Zandrie's  foot  instead,  that  "  gee  "  was  not  for 
ladies'  ears. 

"  Do  you  know  Cousin  Ju,  Miss  Donallon  ?  " — 
the  man  of  the  world  turned  to  include  her  tactfully 
at  last  in  a  conversation  hitherto  of  matters  alien  to 
feminine  experience. 


THE   TWINS  233 

But  she  was  finely  prepared.  "Know  him?  Hasn't 
he  mentioned  me  then?" 

"  No.  At  least  .  .  .  But  you  see  we  have  n't 
been  there  long  enough.  Only  came  day  before  yes- 
terday." 

"  Would  n't  you  have  found  a  chance  to  speak  of 
me  in  two  whole  days  ?  " 

"  I  dunno.     I  'd  have  thought  of  you,  maybe !  " 

Lee  grinned  his  appreciation  of  this  gallantry. 

"  You  rascal !  .  .  .  But  I  like  you  better  than 
—  Cousin  Ju  you  call  him  ?  —  who  has  n't  even 
thought  of  me,  you  see.  He  thinks  about  music,  and 
his  miserable  work,  or  what  his  wards  are  doing  at 
baseball.  Lee  's  pitcher,  he  said.  And  you  think  I 
don't  understand  because  I  'm  just  out  of  a  convent? 
Well,  I  don't !  But  that 's  the  sort  of  thing  he  thinks 
about.  He  does  n't  like  girls." 

"  Oh,  oh !  "  Mrs.  Lynde  laughed  wickedly. 

"  Don't  blame  him,"  said  Lee. 

His  tactful  brother  glowered  at  him.  "  But  Cousin 
Ju  's  really  an  awful  good  chap  just  the  same.  But 
it 's  funny,"  and  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Lynde.  "  He  's 
been  awful  funny,  this  trip.  Always  used  to  be  in- 
terested in  —  why,  all  sorts  of  things,  and  we  'd  tell 
him  things  like  —  you  know,  Lee  —  other  night  on 
the  roof.  And  he  'd  give  us  Hail  Columbia  of  course, 
only  you  know  he  does  n't  mean  it,  and  calls  us  double- 
eyed  villains  and  then  owns  up  he  was  n't  any  Sun- 


234  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


day  school  kid  himself  —  you  bet  your  life !  —  and 
did  lots  worse  things  too,  and  is  n't  really  ashamed  of 
'em  either.  But  this  trip  —  we  don't  know  what 's 
up,  but  he  's  kind  of  cross  and  acts  kind  of  sick,  only 
he  really  is  n't  .  .  ." 

Perhaps  he  really  was,  Mrs.  Lynde  suggested. 

"  No  he  is  n't.  Carter  'd  be  fussing  over  him  like 
an  old  hen,  if  he  was.  Makes  Cousin  Ju  just  swear- 
ing mad  if  there's  anything  really  the  matter  —  old 
Carter  does  —  he  's  such  an  old  tabby  about  him.  But 
now  he 's  just  all-fired  queer,  that 's  all.  Does  n't 
listen  to  a  word  we  say." 

"  And  has  n't  anything  special  he  wants  to  say  him- 
self either."  Even  Lee  was  warming  to  the  subject. 

"  Acts  as  if  it  was  too  much  trouble  to  take  the 
pipe  out  of  his  mouth." 

"  Gee,  I  'd  like  to  smoke  like  that !  " 

"  And  did  n't  get  mad  over  something  we  —  we 
were  pretty  nearly  afraid  to  tell !  Did  n't  see  any- 
thing funny  either.  Just  sat  like  a  parson  staring  out 
the  window  —  at  the  sunset,"  his  ward  added  in  whole- 
some contempt. 

Zandrie  laughed  and  laughed  again. 

"  Did  you  notice  ominous  symptoms  on  Sunday  ?  " 
Mrs.  Lynde  asked  her. 

She  bent  her  head.  "  I  remember  .  .  .  a 
quirk  in  the  parting  of  his  hair,  which  might  mean 
.  .  .  error  in  parting.  Yet  he  's  good  at  parting. 
So  the  trouble  must  be  with  his  eyes.  But  when  I 


THE    TWINS  235 

told  him  that,  he  was  very  bearish  and  ordered  me  out 
of  the  room." 

Poggy  chuckled. 

Lee  asked  if  she  went 

"  What  do  you  guess?  " 

"  Bet  you  did  n't,"  said  Marshall. 

"  Bet  she  would  have,"  said  Lee,  "  if  old  Ju  had 
meant  it." 

"  Both  wrong,  and  both  right  too!  I  went  —  after 
he  'd  called  the  police." 

An  hour  later  she  was  strolling  down  the  moonlit 
garden,  two  sturdy  arms  about  her  waist,  and  a  yel- 
low head  below  her  left  shoulder,  and  a  brown  one 
at  precisely  the  same  distance  below  her  right;  and 
she  was  listening  with  little  squeals  of  glee  to  a  tale 
of  clandestine  carousal  with  mince  pie  and  some  beer 
which,  every  one  owned  up  afterwards  to  his  bosom 
friend,  tasted  different  somehow  from  what  a  fellow 
had  a  right  to  expect. 

"  Beer  's  probably  something  you  have  to  lie  about 
like  olives,"  Marsh  concluded.  "  Bet  it  was  the  old 
beer  stuff  gave  us  that  nightmare." 

The  loyal  twins  insisted  that  they  shared  their  night- 
mares. 

And  then  from  tales  of  lurid  wickedness  and  its 
too  just  punishment,  they  plunged  into  details  of  vaca- 
tion campaigns.  What  time  they  were  not  learning 
to  sail,  this  summer,  they  were  going  to  live  on  horse- 
back. Their  grandmother  Wyndam,  whom  they  vis- 


236  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


ited  every  summer,  had  a  cottage  on  the  Maine  coast, 
and  they  were  to  have  a  knock-about  of  their  own  on 
their  fifteenth  birthday,  provided,  at  least,  that  they 
pulled  through  the  intervening  years  of  probation, 
their  guardian  having  promised  it  only  on  condition 
that  they  passed  three  out  of  every  five  examinations. 
But  meanwhile  he  had  given  them  unconditionally  a 
saddle  each. 

"  We  Ve  always  been  riders  in  our  family,"  Lee 
said  superbly.  "  Mother  rode  like  a  bird,  and  Aunt 
Marjorie  —  she  broke  in  one  of  her  own  ponies,  and 
Gran'pa  Marshall  —  jiminy  Christmas,  but  he  was  a 
dead  game  sport!  Owned  seven  blue-ribbon  horses. 
And  Cousin  Ju  —  he  had  two  or  three  himself,  but 
Toper  was  his  favorite  all  right.  Too  bad  he  got 
killed.  He  won  steeple  chases  on  Toper.  And  once 
he  did  n't  ride  in  the  gentlemen's  running  races  but  in 
the  general,  so  he  was  really  a  professional  jockey  in 
a  way,  you  know.  He  's  a  dead  game  sport  too,  is  n't 
he,  Marsh?" 

Marsh  would  back  him  up  on  that,  even  if  the  old 
sport  was  so  weak  on  music.  "  Say,  Miss  Donallon, 
you  were  just  jollying  us  back  there,  were  n't  you  ? 
You  really  like  him,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  at  times  .  .  .  when  he  is  n't  sending  for 
the  police." 

She  danced  away  to  pick  three  red  roses  frosted 
with  dew  —  no,  four ;  one  for  each  twin  and  one  for 
herself,  and  one  that  Lee  could  take,  if  he  did  n't  mind, 


THE   TWINS  237 

to  the  Old  Sport.  "  Hold  it,"  she  said,  "  while  I  fix 
yours  in  your  buttonhole.  And  you  'd  better  be  quick 
when  I  'm  done,  or  —  guess  what !  .  .  .  Only  I 
would  n't  really  —  never  fear  —  for  I  know  all  about 
how  boys  hate  kissing." 

The  twins  looked  at  each  other  out  of  the  corners 
of  their  eyes  and  said  nothing  at  that  moment.  But 
she  overheard  something  later  as  they  hunted  for  their 
caps  in  the  arbor.  "  Gee !  " —  it  was  Lee's  whisper, 
she  thought  — "  this  honeysuckle  stuff  smells  kind  of 
nice.  .  .  .  Say,  d'  you  know,  I  almost  wish  we  'd 
.  .  .  let  her!" 

"  Huh !  "  was  the  answer,  "  if  you  're  going  to  get 
soft  —  But  she  's  a  dead  game  sport  all  right.  .  .  . 
And  say !  —  she  is  sort  of  —  well,  sort  of  pretty, 
is  n't  she." 

And  the  one  who  overheard  laughed  softly  for  de- 
light. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ZANDRIE  MAKES  A  PROMISE 

But  because  she  was  only  seventeen  after  all,  Ju- 
lian's answer  to  her  letter  looked  as  inexorable  as  the 
arm  that  closed  the  Garden  of  Eden,  and  standing  out- 
side the  gates  of  her  own  Eden,  she  saw  the  road  be- 
fore her  stretch  away  to  unending  desolation,  a  thirsty 
horror  fading  only  into  the  gray  immensity  of  time. 
But  the  figure  of  the  Garden  did  not  fit  her  case  after 
all,  she  said,  for  she  must  travel  the  road  alone. 

For  three  days  after  the  coming  of  his  letter  she 
made  a  valiant  struggle  to  do  what  it  asked  of  her  and 
to  be  brave;  and  she  succeeded  so  well  at  least  that 
the  Lyndes  noticed  nothing  amiss  with  her.  She 
laughed  with  them,  telling  stories  of  the  convent,  and 
even  spent  a  whole  afternoon  at  the  farm,  teaching 
Flotilla  the  uses  of  magic  beans.  She  had  forced 
herself  to  read,  and  to  understand  what  she  read  too, 
though  that  often  involved  reading  a  passage  four 
times  over  before  its  meaning  cooled  into  shape  in 
her  hot  brain.  She  thought  she  was  doing  very  well. 
And  at  night  —  well,  at  night  she  had  cried  a  good 

238 


ZANDRIE    MAKES    A    PROMISE    239 

deal,  to  be  sure,  but  she  had  also  prayed  hard  to  the 
Virgin  for  courage  equal  to  Julian's. 

On  the  fourth  night,  however,  something  like  a  little 
demon  hopped  into  her  brain  to  touch  off  a  rocket 
question  beginning  with  the  old  Satanic  "  why  ?  " 
Why  choose,  if  God  —  or  Julian  —  invited  her  to  an 
unequal  contest  in  which  the  joy  of  living  must  go 
down  —  why  choose  to  accept  the  challenge  ?  Why  ? 
—  when  life  without  Julian  was  simply  a  contradiction 
of  terms,  and  to  ask  it  was  inviting  her  to  eat  without 
food? 

Why  had  he  demanded  it  ?  Her  thought  had  beaten 
itself  against  that  incomprehensibility  till  her  very 
body  was  sore.  And  his  letter,  for  all  its  pains  to 
explain,  still  left  her  beating  against  the  wall;  the 
reasons  were  no  reasons.  He  was  out  of  his  mind. 
Or  else  —  or  else  he  did  not  really  love  her. 

Earth  throbbed  with  the  myriad  voices  of  the  July 
night  —  a  chorus  of  tiny  praises  for  the  fiery  day  that 
was  done;  the  sky  throbbed  with  the  mystery  of  its 
unheard  music  —  depth  upon  depth  of  stars,  and  still 
unfathomed  depths,  every  area  luminous  with  the  hint 
of  unseen  treasure.  And  from  all  that  ocean,  never 
a  drop  of  peace  for  a  parched  little  soul?  She  lay 
stifled  by  infinity,  an  atom  caught  in  the  whirlpool  of 
being,  an  absurd  speck  that  God  had  probably  forgot- 
ten and  that  might  choose  either  good  or  evil  without 
disturbing  by  a  hair's  breadth  the  movement  of  his 


240  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


august  machinery.  Julian  was  right  in  that  she  had 
known  nothing  of  the  world.  She  had  seen  neither 
its  complexity  nor  its  vastness.  She  had  believed  her- 
self an  item  that  counted  in  its  economy.  Her  once 
dreamed-of  work  in  the  world?  O  pitiful,  sublime 
conceit !  The  idea  that  Julian  had  need  of  her  —  he 
himself  had  proved  rather  well  the  absurdity  of  that. 
She  was  not  needed  even  by  the  two  good  souls  who 
had  asked  her  to  live  with  them  until  she  should  find 
her  work.  And  she  was  never  to  find  it,  because  it 
did  not  exist. 

Then  why  be  "  brave,"  when  bravery  meant  merely 
a  journey  of  lonely  terror  down  the  road  that  Julian 
had  the  arrogance  to  tell  her  must  be  her  way? 
"Must?"  In  heaven's  name,  why?  Why  not  defy 
his  "must,"  and  God  himself?  Why  not  slip  of  her 
own  will  out  of  all  known  enigmas?  —  take  the  un- 
known for  better  or  for  worse?  That  would  hardly 
be  cowardice.  But  perhaps  all  good  believers  were 
wrong  and  Dr.  Summers  was  right,  and  there  was 
neither  heaven  nor  hell,  but  a  friendly  void,  the  end 
of  pain  and  bliss.  Then  she  could  at  least  obey  Ju- 
lian and  forget ! 

She  sat  up  slowly,  more  like  a  child  that  knows 
itself  naughty,  than  like  one  who  has  gripped  a  great 
resolve,  and  felt  for  Julian's  letter  under  her  pillow. 
It  must  not  be  left  behind  for  other  eyes.  She  would 
have  liked  to  carry  it  bodily  with  her  into  the  next 
world;  and  meanwhile  it  possessed  her  thought  so 


ZANDRIE    MAKES    A    PROMISE  241 

that  she  forgot  to  plan  how  she  would  enter  that 
world  herself.  Her  resolve  to  die  was  as  undefined  as 
great. 

For  several  minutes  she  fingered  its  sheets,  caress- 
ing, folding  them,  and  again  unfolding,  summoning 
in  vain  the  will  to  tear  them.  She  had  rather  tear 
her  own  flesh,  almost,  than  the  writing  there.  It  was 
almost  all  that  she  owned  of  Julian  now.  Well  then, 
she  would  compromise  with  her  stubborn  hands,  and 
read  once  more,  though  she  knew  it  all  by  heart  al- 
ready. So  she  felt  stealthily  for  a  match,  and,  star- 
tled to  breathlessness  by  its  hiss,  lit  a  candle.  The 
sight  of  Julian's  hand-writing  brought  him  so  vividly 
near  that  her  hands  dropped  to  her  lap,  and  "  O 
Mother  of  God! "  she  whispered,  "  how  could  you  let 
him!" 

When  she  took  up  the  letter  again,  her  glance  fell 
on  some  words  near  the  end :  "  Then  why  not  live 
near  each  other  in  simple  friendship  ?  you  ask.  I  Ve 
asked  it  myself  often  enough,  but  the  answer  always 
comes  out  the  same :  because  I  could  n't  do  my  part ; 
because  I  'd  go  on  loving  you  and  showing  it  too,  for 
I  'm  mighty  poor  at  acting.  You  love  me  now  as  well, 
as  you  can  now,  but  I  reckon*  that 's  because  you  were 
made  for  loving  and  the  first  man  you  met  loved  you. 
The  sight  of  my  love  would  bind  you  in  yours,  just 
because  you  're  you.  If  I  could  give  you  anything 
like  the  life  you  ought  to  have,  perhaps  I  'd  have  the 
right  to  try  to  keep  your  love,  though  I  'm  wholly  un- 

16 


242  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

worthy  of  you  and  have  been  even  more  so  in  the  past. 
You  've  seen  the  best  of  me,  and  hardly  anything  but 
the  best,  you  know.  You  don't  know  what  a  vil- 
lainous temper  I  've  got,  or  how  often  it  gets  me. 
Carter  could  tell  you  a  thing  or  two.  But  even  with 
a  nice  disposition,  no  old  thing  with  a  crack  in  his 
spine  would  have  a  right  to  you.  Honor  alone  would 
require  me  to  leave  you  free  —  to  give  you  your 
chance,  that  is,  for  the  best  sort  of  life  and  the  fullest 
happiness.  And  when  you  are  all  grown  up,  dear, 
it  will  come,  and  you  '11  justify  me." 

O  yes,  she  knew  all  that  by  heart;  and  the  thought 
was  already  old,  that  if  his  love  were  as  deep  as  hers, 
it  would  teach  him  better  wisdom. 

She  turned  listlessly  back  to  the  first  sheet.  "  Dear 
heart,"  it  began  —  and  she  could  tell  what  followed 
with  her  eyes  shut  — "  I  wish  more  than  ever  before 
that  I  could  play  to  you,  for  then  perhaps  I  could 
make  you  see." 

Make  her  see !  —  when,  if  she  was  blind,  he  was 
both  blind  and  deaf! 

Glancing  up,  she  caught  sight  of  her  face  in  a  mir- 
ror, and  started  at  recognizing  it  as  her  own  —  the 
eyes  shadowed  beneath  in  the  flickering  candlelight, 
the  lips  set  in  lines  of  bitter  grief.  No  one  who  saw 
those  would  call  her  a  child!  Julian's  eyes  were 
shadowed  like  that  when  she  last  saw  them  —  yet 
brave  too;  yes,  cruelly  brave  like  the  letter  here.  As 
soon  pity  the  archangel  Michael  in  his  arrogant  pride 


ZANDRIE    MAKES    A    PROMISE   243 

of  strength,  as  the  man  who  could  write  this.  She 
turned  the  sheets  over  mechanically,  reading  without 
heeding. 

Wait!  —  what  was  it  he  said  here?  She  read 
again :  "  Have  I  ever  needed  help  ?  Dear,  can  you 
ask  it  in  earnest  ?  I  know  you  've  called  me  brave  and 
thought  me  strong,  but  surely  not  quite  as  strong  as 
that  ?  It 's  true  I  used  to  like  danger  and  don't  fear 
death,  but  what  do  you  think  of  a  fellow  who  often 
fears  living,  because  of  the  humiliation  of  having  to 
live  in  a  wheel-chair  or  be  carried  about  like  a  baby, 
and  flies  into  rages  because  he  can't  have  his  own 
way?  That  fear  of  living  has  almost  got  the  best  of 
me  at  times,  and  the  resolve  to  live  and  fight  it  out 
to  the  end  has  come  out  on  top  chiefly  because  —  well, 
I  reckon  because  it  was  too  indecent  cowardice  to  do 
anything  else." 

"  To  live  and  fight  it  out " —  had  she  seen  those 
words  before?  Why,  those  meant  —  yes,  they  must 
mean  that  he  had  thought  of  —  of  what  she  had  de- 
cided this  very  night  to  do  presently.  If  they  had  not 
appeared  on  the  paper,  as  the  writing  on  the  wall,  she 
had  read  them  over  and  over  without  heeding.  And 
she  had  thought  she  knew  the  letter  by  heart !  "  The 
resolve  to  live  "...  Ah,  one  suffers  very  much 
before  one  comes  to  the  need  of  that  resolve.  And 
then,  unforeseen,  some  words  of  her  own  stormed  her 
memory,  swarming  through  her  brain  till  it  rang  and 
echoed  with  the  odd  clamor  —  very  odd  indeed  for 


244  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

the  reason  that  though  the  voice  seemed  to  come  from 
without,  it  was  her  own.  "  Why  do  you  look  at  me 
so  ?  I  'm  glad !  glad !  I  '11  remember  at  least  that  you 
can  suffer  too." 

She  threw  herself  back  on  the  bed  and  stopped  her 
ears,  to  banish  the  ghost  of  her  own  voice. 

It  must  have  taken  a  long  time,  for  when  she 
opened  her  eyes,  the  candle  flame  was  struggling  like 
a  poor  lost  soul  in  a  slough  of  its  own  making.  She 
watched  it  with  half-seeing  eyes,  searching  her  tired 
brain  for  what  had  happened;  but  all  that  she  found 
was  the  memory  of  a  frightening,  shapeless  something 
like  a  tidal  wave,  that  for  a  moment  had  caught  con- 
sciousness itself  in  its  undertow;  and  then  the  smaller 
return  waves  had  come  eddying  back,  till  the  waters  of 
the  spirit  were  ready  to  take  up  their  old,  sane  beat. 
She  sighed  and  sighed  again,  but  happily,  because  of  a 
danger  past.  The  only  pain  left  was  the  pain  of  self- 
forgetting  love. 

The  Knight  on  his  horse  rode  once  more  before  her 
vision,  confident,  splendid, —  embodiment  of  the  joy 
of  living,  mere  sight  of  whom  set  the  blood  athrob. 
When  a  child,  she  herself  had  ridden  a  pony  and  heard 
a  whistle  of  wind  at  her  ears  and  felt  the  quivering 
warmth  of  horse-flesh  between  her  knees;  she  herself 
knew  how,  at  a  gallop,  one  rides  not  a  horse  but  the 
rhythm  of  a  song.  One  must  ride  to  know  the  alpha- 
bet of  the  fun  of  life. 

But  to  learn  and  lose  it!     Better,  almost,   not  to 


ZANDRIE    MAKES    A    PROMISE    245 

have  known,  if  the  fun  must  go.  And  when  it  must 
be  exchanged  for  unending  dreariness;  when,  instead 
of  free  to  come  and  go  in  the  sunshine,  a  man  lies 
chained  to  pain  and  the  ignominy  of  bodily  helpless- 
ness, unable  to  cross  a  room  without  aid  from  those 
whom  he  could  once  have  carried  on  his  back  almost 
without  bending  —  a  man  still  young,  to  the  core  of 
him  abominating  dependence  —  She  had  known  the 
bitterness  of  deprivation  in  Julian's  lot  already  —  the 
obvious  tragedy  of  unfulfillment,  thwarted  desires, 
and  present  pain.  But  the  worst  of  it,  the  gall  of  its 
gall  —  its  humiliation  —  she  had  not  tasted  with  him 
till  to-night  Remember  that  he  could  suffer?  Her 
bitter  words  were  turned  prophets  of  salvation,  for 
with  them  the  full  meaning  of  his  renunciation  of  her- 
self burst  upon  her,  dragging  shame  at  its  heels  — 
shame  to  think  how  nearly  the  sacrifice  had  been  for 
nothing.  If  he  had  put  her  from  him,  deeming  her 
worth  the  struggle  it  cost,  and  then  if  she  had  proved 
herself  a  contemptible  thing!  He  had  given  her  up 
because  he  loved  her  as  though  she  were  worthy  — 
worthy  of  the  love  of  one  who  could  lose  point  by  point 
in  the  game  of  life  and  refuse  to  stop  playing,  even 
after  he  had  turned  from  the  last  bright  chance,  be- 
cause it  was  not  quite  fair  —  so  he  thought  —  yet  the 
last,  perhaps,  in  all  the  game.  If  he  had  been  brought 
to  more  chagrin  through  her  —  O  Mother  of  Heaven ! 
that  would  have  been  too  pitiful,  if  she  had  done  what 
she  had  planned  to  do  this  night  —  the  thing  that  he 


246  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


himself  had  scorned !  —  if  he  had  learned  that  the 
great  act  of  his  life  had  been  squandered  on  something 
meagre,  paltry!  .  .  .  However  mistaken,  the  act 
of  his  sacrifice  was  still  sublime. 

And  so  she  came  to  make  that  promise  which  made 
life  without  Julian  a  possible  thing  because  Julian  was 
yet  the  heart  of  its  motive;  for  it  was  the  promise  to 
justify  his  sacrifice  by  living  as  greatly  as  she  could. 
She  would  live  just  for  that.  And  later,  "  I  '11  try  to 
forget  too,"  she  said.  "  I  '11  have  to  forget,  or  — 
Virgin  help  me  to  forget !  .  .  .  But  I  promise.  I 
promise." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  ROAD 

It  seems  a.  curious  paradox  that  the  road  to  the  Hill 
of  Forgetting  is  stony  unless  one  climbs  it  blindfolded. 
But  when  Zandrie  chose  that  road,  in  the  first  flare  of 
resolve  the  sorry  business  of  remembering  to  forget 
looked  almost  possible. 

Early  in  July,  two  days  before  the  expected  migra- 
tion to  her  summer  cottage,  Mrs.  Lynde  fell  ill,  and 
though  her  sickness  made  a  strong  ally  in  the  fight  to 
forget,  every  day  in  town  was  beset  with  ambuscades 
of  reminder  —  grievous  enough  in  a  time  when  it  was 
a  feat  of  will,  for  instance,  just  not  to  walk  past  Mrs. 
Bright's  on  purpose.  That  temptation  snared  her 
only  once  however,  and  brought  little  comfort  too, 
for  once  in  sight  of  Julian's  window  —  that  western 
window  from  which  one  saw  a  piece  of  the  street  — 
she  had  hung  her  head  in  shame  and  fear  of  seeing 
what  she  most  ached  to  see  in  all  the  world,  and  so 
walked  straight  into  an  apologetic  mountain  that 
turned  out  to  be  Carter,  from  whom  she  had  scurried 
away  without  a  word.  Often  since,  she  had  called 
herself  faint-spirited  little  fool  for  not  having  asked  a 

247 


248  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


single  question;  but  those  were  not  her  best  moments, 
she  owned. 

Of  course  her  hill  was  hedged  with  danger;  and 
there  was  Billy  at  the  farm,  but  she  could  go  to  play 
with  the  other  children  when  he  was  at  the  printing 
house.  His  mother's  questions  were  easily  answered 
and  soon  ceased  after  her  explaining  that  since  she 
lived  with  the  Lyndes  she  saw  little  of  Billy's  Mr. 
Furness. 

But  the  Lyndes'  questions  were  to  be  feared  in  ear- 
nest by  one  so  bent  on  the  business  of  forgetting, 
though  the  time  was  bound  to  come  when  they  would 
discover  what  she  had  so  far  been  at  such  pains  to 
hide  —  the  fact  that  she  no  longer  went  to  see 
Julian. 

It  was  in  these  first  days  of  battle  with  the  past  that 
she  asked  them  to  call  her  Alex,  instead  of  Zandrie 
which  was  so  knit  with  memories  of  the  unhappiest 
years  of  her  life  —  though  "of  the  happiest  weeks" 
would  have  hit  nearer  the  truth;  but,  she  wanted  to 
start  anew,  she  said. 

Poggy,  when  his  wife  fell  ill,  was  for  having  a 
trained  nurse,  which  Zandrie  would  not  hear  of,  how- 
ever, playing  nurse  herself  with  prodigious  enthusiasm 
even  after  her  patient  teased  her  with  the  charge  that 
she  might  have  made  a  perfectly  good  sister  of  charity 
after  all.  For  of  course,  acute  though  she  often  was, 
Mrs.  Lynde  could  hardly  be  expected  to  see,  below 
such  zeal,  the  passionate  motive  of  resolve  to  justify 


THE    ROAD  249 


another's  self-sacrifice.  She  ascribed  it  to  "  natural 
intensity  " —  and  was  partially  right. 

On  the  second  Sunday  of  her  illness  she  asked  why 
Zandrie  was  not  going  to  see  Julian,  and  as  Poggy 
was  within  call  and  beautifully  eager  to  be  of  service, 
the  poor  child  left  the  house  at  once  to  avoid  more 
questions.  But  messages  flew  after  her  on  her  way 
down  stairs :  "  Tell  him  we  '11  be  at  the  cottage  by 
August  first  and  want  him  as  soon  as  he  can  come. 
Tell  him  you  're  the  best  inducement  we  offer  this  sea- 
son. Tell  him — " — but  Zandrie  was  speeding  away 
in  a  panic.  When  she  returned  however  —  from  the 
Lawson  farm  —  Mrs.  Lynde  had  a  headache  and  asked 
no  questions,  and  whenever  she  spoke  of  him  during 
that  week,  Zandrie  managed  to  change  the  subject 
and  tell  no  lies.  But  that  he  would  not  come  to  the 
Lyndes'  cottage  was  quite  certain  of  course,  and  their 
discovery  that  his  reason  concerned  herself,  seemed 
bound  to  come. 

And  it  did  come,  one  evening  ten  days  later.  Mrs. 
Lynde  sat  on  the  veranda,  the  household  cat  on  her 
lap,  Zandrie  perched  on  the  railing,  while  Poggy  in 
earnest  communion  with  his  pipe  paced  a  garden  walk. 
"  You  think  you  see  him?  "  his  wife  suggested.  "  O 
dear,  no !  Poggy 's  in  his  unsavory  laboratory  — 
where  things  are  exploding  prematurely  a  little  too 
often  lately,  I  take  it.  It 's  disturbing  his  mind  — 
even  his!  I  know  the  signs."  And  after  a  pause, 
"  I  sent  him  after  you  to  Julian's,  last  Sunday." 


250  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


The  railing  gave  such  a  lurch  for  Zandrie  that  she 
clutched  at  the  vine  behind  her.  One  of  Mrs.  Lynde's 
friends  had  called,  last  Sunday,  so  that  she  had  es- 
caped from  the  house  even  without  messages. 

"  And  his  report,"  her  hostess  went  on,  "  roused 
my  unusually  feminine  curiosity  to  such  a  pitch 
that—" 

"  Here  he  comes ! "  Zandrie  gasped. 

"Julian?     .     .     .     Oh,  our  Poggy 's  wraith." 

The  wraith  stumbled  substantially  against  the  steps 
and  murmured  "  gosh !  " 

"Poggy  dear!"  his  wife  reproved.  "Before  the 
cat  too!" 

But  he  wheeled  about  unheeding;  and  Zandrie 
hunted  in  vain  for  something  to  divert  Mrs.  Lynde 
from  the  question  she  had  almost  asked. 

"  He  went  to  Julian's,"  the  ruthless  lady  said,  "  hop- 
ing to  walk  home  with  you,  and  waited  till  six.  I 
berated  you  both, —  separately, —  for  being  late  —  but 
Poggy  of  course  did  n't  explain  for  three  days." 

Zandrie  remembered  his  inquiring  glance  when  she 
had  come  in  late  to  dinner,  but  as  he  had  said  nothing 
of  where  he  had  been,  and  his  wife  was  still  in  her 
room,  her  guilt  had  escaped  Mrs.  Lynde's  detection. 
She  murmured  now  something  about  the  Lawson 
farm. 

"  But  what  puzzled  him  to  the  verge  of  gossiping 
was  Julian's  behavior  at  mention  of  yourself.  He 
changed  the  subject,  and  asked  after  my  health  as 


THE    ROAD  251 


though  challenging  poor  dear  Poggy  to  a  duel.  And 
then  it  came  out  that  he  did  n't  know  I  was  sick,  and 
when  Poggy  seemed  grieved  that  you  hadn't  spoken 
of  it,  he  got  red  and  incoherent  in  your  defense ;  from 
which  Poggy  made  out  only  that  you  had  n't  been 
there  for  ages  and  were  n't  expected  that  afternoon. 
But  of  course  he  never  asked  why.  And  next,  it 
came  out  that  Julian  refused  point-blank  and  without 
any  given  reason,  to  come  to  the  cottage  as  usual.  Of 
course  he  's  often  disagreeable  —  all  musicians  are  — 
but  dear  me!  no  one  need  growl  at  inoffensive  Pog- 
gies!" 

Zandrie  found  nothing  to  say  to  the  contrary. 

"  Now  then,  I  'm  going  to  brave  Julian  myself, 

presently.  Meanwhile  —  O  Zand I  mean  Alex ! 

You  intangible  little  creature!  Who  knows?  you  may 
tire  of  us,  presently ;  and  Poggy  '11  wake  up  and  ask 
after  you,  and  I  '11  have  to  tell  him  '  She  's  been  gone 
for  days  and  days ! '  Tell  me,  do  you  feel  it  coming 
on  —  the  impulse  to  flight  ?  " 

Zandrie  jumped  down  from  her  perch,  but  her 
hostess  caught  her  hand.  "  Not  yet,  dear !  .  .  . 
Will  you  go  with  me  to  see  poor  old  Julian  to-morrow 
or  next  day  ?  I  '11  be  able  to  race  an  auto  by  next 
day !  .  .  .  O  my  dear,  I  understand.  I  don't  ask 
you  to  explain ;  it  would  n't  be  of  any  use  to  ask,  I  'm 
afraid."  There  was  a  little  something  like  bitterness 
in  her  voice,  as  she  said  that.  "  Why  don't  you  tell 
things  and  let  your  friends  help  ?  " 


252  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


She  stood  silent  for  a  minute.  "  Yes,"  she  said  at 
last,  "  you  can  help,  then  —  by  —  by  not  speaking  — 
never  speaking  of  him  again.  Think  I  'm  tired  of 
him,  if  you  choose,  but  — " 

"  I  never  thought  it  for  a  minute !  " 

"  But  don't  ask  me  to  go  with  you.  I  'm  not  going 
to  see  him  any  more.  And  —  and  when  you  see 
him,"  she  went  on  very  quietly  —  it  was  wonderful, 
how  quiet  one  could  be !  — "  please  don't  speak  of 
me." 

"  But  when  he  speaks  of  you?  " 

"He  won't;  not  even  if  you  speak  of  me." 

"  Bless  us !  It  sounds  like  a  dime  novel !  I  '11 
have  to  padlock  my  tongue  and  let  him  do  all  the  talk- 
ing ;  and  he  won't  do  it !  He  never  did  confide  in  me. 
So  we  '11  just  sit  glaring  at  each  other  and  —  Well, 
dear,  don't  take  things  too  intensely.  I  understand 
these  little  matters  better  than  you  think.  You  're 
bound  to  make  it  up  soon,  you  two.  " 

So  she  thought  they  had  quarreled  !  Distasteful  in- 
terpretation though  it  was,  Zandrie  let  her  keep  it. 
And  yet,  if  Mrs.  Lynde  had  been  ever  so  little  different 
—  less  like  a  child,  for  instance  .  .  .  The  impulse 
to  tell  her  all  was  often  urgent;  it  was  so  compelling 
even  at  this  moment  that  Zandrie  suddenly  took  Mrs. 
Lynde's  face  between  her  hands  and  turned  it  to  the 
moonlight.  Then  her  hands  dropped,  and  she  went 
into  the  house. 

A  few  days  later  Mrs.  Lynde  made  her  call  on 


THE    ROAD  253 


Julian,  but  found  him  "  even  gruffer  than  usual."  His 
reason  for  refusing  to  come  to  the  cottage  now 
appeared  to  be,  that  he  was  going  to, a  camp  in  Ver- 
mont with  his  friend  the  organist  of  the  Catholic 
church;  Carter  too,  of  course.  If  she  had  hoped  for 
light  on  the  subject  of  his  breach  with  Zandrie,  he  had 
evidently  disappointed  her.  He  acted  as  though  he 
needed  a  vacation,  she  said,  and  she  was  glad  enough 
when  the  ringing  of  the  fire  bell  gave  her  an  excuse 
for  cutting  her  call  short.  She  always  ran  to  fires. 
" '  It 's  all  very  well  to  dissemble  your  love,  but  why 
should  you  kick  me  down  stairs  ?  '  '  she  sang ;  and 
when  Poggy  asked  who  wrote  that  vulgar  ditty, 
"Charles  Wesley?"  she  mused  sweetly,  "or  was  it 
Mrs.  Hemans  ?  "  But  for  all  her  shocking  levity  she 
showed  excellent  self  control  about  asking  questions, 
and  if  she  made  further  efforts  to  understand  the 
breach  she  supposed  to  exist,  she  said  nothing  about 
them  to  Zandrie. 

The  cottage  was  her  own  property, —  a  charming 
little  house  on  the  coast  of  southern  Maine,  in  a  colony 
of  "  the  sort  of  people  she  was  used  to."  She  always 
wanted  to  marry  a  business  man,  she  said,  but  to  live  in 
a  manufacturing  town  the  year  round  was  another 
matter ;  as  she  could  n't  afford  an  auto,  she  liked  to 
play  with  people  who  talked  of  something  besides 
motoring  and  shop.  In  fact  she  really  had  to  come 
down  here  to  save  her  clothes  and  her  soul.  The  only 
lack  was  poor  dear  Poggy.  It  would  be  so  perfect  if 


254  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


only  he  could  be  here  more.  In  which  he  agreed  with 
her,  perhaps.  But  he  came  every  Saturday  evening, 
tired  out,  and  had  to  return  to  his  laboratory,  tired 
still,  Monday  morning,  his  wife  keeping  open  house 
joyously  the  while.  There  was  something  a  little 
pathetic  in  the  droop  of  his  shoulders  as  he  sat  among 
her  guests,  smiling  vaguely  at  the  laughter  when  by 
chance  it  reached  him  through  the  wall  of  his  pre- 
occupation, so. that  once  Zandrie  led  him  forth  for  a 
walk  along  the  rocks;  and  then  he  broke  his  silence 
to  discourse  of  the  dull  habits  of  the  pentacta  frondosa, 
and  lost  track  of  the  time,  and  was  altogether  happy 
till  he  got  back  and  was  reproved  for  being  late  to 
lunch  and  for  having  deserted  his  wife.  He  sighed, 
said  nothing,  and  took  no  more  walks  without  her, 
which  amounted  to  his  taking  no  more  at  all. 

Zandrie  spent  her  first  days  at  the  shore  exploring 
the  wonder-houses  of  barnacles,  snails  and  starfish,  all 
in  a  fury  of  resolve  not  to  remember  that  someone  had 
been  here  before  her  and  would  be  here  now  but  for 
herself.  There  was  a  flat  ledge  where  one  could  lie 
in  the  sun,  out  of  sight  of  houses,  and  watch  the  swells 
heave  up  out  of  the  south-east,  listening  for  the  organ 
tone  deep  and  steady  under  the  shifting  hiss  of  the 
spray.  Had  it  ever  brought  him,  too,  thoughts  that 
must  be  beaten  back?  She  dared  not  listen  long  be- 
cause of  them;  for  she  was  being  marvelously  good 
about  keeping  her  promise.  Indeed  she  thought  she 
had  come  a  long  way  on  her  road. 


THE    ROAD  255 


One  afternoon  her  friend  Mrs.  Lynde  set  a  good- 
sized  boulder  in  the  way,  apparently  with  intention, 
though  it  may  be  that  she  had  really  forgotten  the  plea 
for  help.  She  never  dreamed,  she  said,  that  Julian 
could  flirt  —  not  till  two  or  three  years  ago  here  at  the 
shore.  "  She  was  a  fascinating  girl  —  lots  of  atten- 
tion from  men  —  so  much  that  I  warned  her  to  be 
good  when  she  came  here."  She  laughed,  and  Zandrie 
affected  interest  in  a  perfectly  parvenu  muscle-shell  at 
her  feet.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  was  unreasoningly, 
guiltily  glad  of  a  new  stone  in  the  road,  and  in  fear 
of  its  being  removed  all  too  soon.  But  Mrs.  Lynde 
had  more  to  say.  "  I  wrote  her  there  was  an  invalid 
gentleman  here  whose  life  she  really  must  n't  ruin  . 
It  was  really  funny  .  .  .  though  he  was 
good  looking  enough,  if  one  admires  fair  men  —  he 
showed  the  marks  of  illness  so  much  less  than  now; 
and  she  expected  from  my  letter  to  find  a  middle-aged, 
dyspeptic  horror.  But  as  for  his  flirting  —  it  never 
occurred  to  me  that  he  could  —  or  be  dangerous  if  he 
did.  Oh,  it  was  nothing  serious,  of  course;  she  mar- 
ried, the  next  year.  But  I  was  just  surprised  that  it 
was  she  had  the  worst  of  the  encounter  —  that 's  all. 
And  it  was  nothing  but  outrageous,  arrant  flirting  on 
his  part.  He  said  so.  Even  said  by  way  of  self 
defense,  though  quite  seriously  too,  that  he  could  n't 
do  anything  else!  —  was  n't  in  a  position  to.  O  these 
men!  .  .  .  But  he  's  right,  of  course,  about  not 
marrying.  Perfectly.  He  'd  be  difficult  enough  to 


256  ZANDRIE 


live  with  even  under  the  most  favoring  circumstances 
—  favoring  to  his  temper,  you  know ;  but     ... 
Heaven  send  angel  Poggies  to  all  of  us !  " 

Questions  that  Zandrie  had  no  courage  to  ask, 
clamored  in  her;  but  Mrs.  Lynde,  conscious  perhaps 
of  a  duty  well  done,  changed  the  subject. 

Result  of  the  dutiful  act :  a  night  of  new  imaginings, 
memories,  questioning,  and  incredulous  indignation 
against  Mrs.  Lynde's  unsympathetic  attitude  towards 
Julian  himself  and  the  question  of  his  marrying;  all 
to  the  accompaniment  of  a  wet  pillow. 

Then,  luckily,  the  road  began  to  be  enlivened  by 
certain  travelers  coming  from  worlds  so  different  from 
the  one  she  had  known,  that  their  words  caught  the  ear 
of  her  interest  at  last.  Mrs.  Lynde's  visitors,  for  a 
fact,  were  seldom  dull.  But  the  one  who  could  hold 
attention  best  of  them  all,  did  not  whirl  in  till  one 
Saturday  in  October  —  to  spend  Sunday  only,  so  he 
said.  But  he  stayed  a  week.  And  in  that  week 
Dr.  Francis  Royce  showed  himself  in  a  distracting 
variety  of  lights.  Whatever  was  to  be  said  for  or 
against  the  color  of  his  eyes,  his  faults  did  not  include 
monotony.  With  Poggy  he  discussed  heavy  scientific 
questions.  To  Mrs.  Lynde  he  displayed  quasi-filial 
devotion  spiced  with  gallantry;  the  two  were  never 
heard  to  exchange  a  serious  thought.  With  Zandrie 
he  was,  by  turns,  brotherly,  paternal,  audacious,  meek, 
masterful,  elaborately  formal,  impertinent,  and  the 
pink  of  courtesy.  A  great  help, —  no  doubt  of  that ! 


THE    ROAD  257 


One  ofternoon,  seated  on  a  ledge  above  a  swirl  of 
green  water,  she  was  startled  to  find  him  standing  near, 
eyeing  her  with  prodigious  solemnity.  "  Now,  at  the 
end  of  the  week,  what  do  you  really  think  of  me  ?"  he 
demanded.  "  I  've  come  for  a  last  and  candid  state- 
ment of  your  opinion." 

At  least  he  could  make  one  laugh.  But  she  had  told 
him  already  that  she  liked  him  not  at  all.  "  You  're 
going?  "  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  quizzically.  "  Hard  to  read  with- 
out a  pony.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  'm  going.  My  orgy 
of  irresponsibility  is  ended." 

One  had  to  have  thought  of  a  thing  before  having 
an  opinion,  she  said  gravely. 

"  O  never !  —  or  seldom.  But  honestly,  Miss  Alex, 
—  if  I  were  n't  artist  enough  to  enjoy  the  dramatic 
for  its  own  sake  .  .  .  Come,  we  '11  sacrifice  art 
to  truth  at  last.  You  've  got  an  opinion  —  a  very 
positive  opinion.  You  and  I  are  n't  of  the  genus  jelly- 
fish, you  know.  No  one  ever  met  me  without  feeling 
quite  sure  he  'd  met  something.  " 

"  Something  .  .  .  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  see  it 
now !  —  a  strange  beast  with  scales  that  change  color 
with  every  light,  and  tentacles  all  over  that  feel  and 
feel  for  others'  thoughts  about  itself.  But  they 
need  n't  feel  on  this  rock !  But  there,  there, —  I  '11 
say  good-by  nicely.  Some  of  its  scales  are  very 
pretty.  It 's  a  good  beast,  sometimes,  when  it  talks 
science  with  Poggy." 

17 


258  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


"If  you  'd  like  me  to  talk  science  with  you  —  " 

"Saints  defend  us!  —  only  sense." 

His  smile  was  paternal.  "  And  you  looked  so 
harmless  —  so  artless  —  standing  there  in  your  little 
black  dress,  communing  with  the  miniature  that  even- 
ing. So  helpless  .  .  .If  that  lady  of  the  mini- 
ature had  only  been  my  mother,  now,  and  I  had 
favored  her,  as  they  say.  .  .  .  Jove !  I  met  a  fel- 
low in  Paris  once,  whom  I  'm  glad  you  have  n't  met." 

"Why?" 

"  So  like  the  lady.  You  evidently  approved  of  her 
looks." 

She  ignored  the  implication.  "  Who  was  he  ?  "  she 
asked,  her  heart  beating  fast. 

"  Blessed  if  I  remember  his  name.  Noticeable, 
good-looking  chap  I  heard  play  the  organ,  that  was  all. 
Did  n't  really  know  him,  but  I  've  always  envied  him, 
somehow  .  .  .  Well,  good-by.  Good-by.  But 
I  'm  coming  back  in  spite  of  you !  "  And  although  he 
strode  away  with  a  shake  of  his  fist,  the  light  in  his 
eyes  was  neither  fatherly  nor  fraternal.  But  she 
noticed  it  not  at  all.  In  fact,  the  startling  idea  that 
it  was  quite  possibly  Julian  whom  he  had  seen  and 
heard  —  for  he  had  been  in  Paris  eight  years  ago  — 
excluded  all  thought  of  the  Doctor  himself  for  the 
next  two  hours. 

Yet  his  personality  was  not  of  the  genus  jellyfish. 
It  was  often  distinctly  irritating  —  the  insolence  with 
which  his  kaleidoscopic  image  careered  through  one's 


THE    ROAD  259 


brain,  capering  into  the  gravest  assembly  of  thoughts 
without  apology  or  "  by  your  leave."  Yes,  Dr.  Fran- 
cis Royce  compelled  attention  —  of  a  sort,  so  she  told 
herself  that  evening  as  she  and  Mrs.  Lynde  watched  a 
phosphorescent  pool  —  a  firmanent  of  meteors  and 
restless  Milky  Ways  with  comets  of  white  flame  at 
their  core.  He  had  watched  it  with  her  the  evening  be- 
fore, talking  "  sense  "  for  a  full  half  hour.  She  owed 
him  gratitude  at  the  least  for  helping  her  on  her  road. 
And  she  had  come  such  a  long  way  now  —  three 
months  along  —  and  that  was  a  whole  quarter  of  a 
year.  Three  months  with  never  a  sight  or  sound  of 
—  hey!  but  this  sort  of  thing  was  against  rules!  — 
she  was  paying  the  penalty  of  a  sob  already,  and  Mrs. 
Lynde  not  a  foot  away  to  hear  it!  She  heard,  of 
course,  and  natural  results  ensued :  more  sobs,  mutual 
embraces,  tender  dabs  of  a  handkerchief,  words  that 
look  foolish  in  print, —  all,  in  short,  except  an  explana- 
tion. 

Yet  the  impulse  to  tell  came  often  still,  and  Mrs. 
Lynde  wanted  her  confidence  —  showed  that  she  was 
piqued  and  hurt  by  her  withholding  it.  But  Mrs. 
Lynde  herself  had  destroyed  the  last  possibility  of  her 
giving  it,  when  she  had  said  that  Julian  ought  not  to 
marry.  For  in  the  first  place  her  evident  personal  dis- 
like of  the  idea  of  his  marrying  seemed  to  imply  a  lack 
of  thorough  liking  for  Julian  himself,  and  so  to  cut  a 
gulf  of  incomprehensibility  between  herself  and  one 
who  loved  him.  But  above  all,  it  meant  that  if  she 


260  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


knew  what  he  had  done,  she  would  take  his  side.  So 
the  habit  of  keeping  her  own  counsel,  already  learned 
in  the  convent,  stood  Zandrie  in  good  stead  now,  she 
thought.  It  was  becoming  second  nature. 

Indeed  it  is  a  useful,  commendable  habit,  they  say. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ZANDRIE  OF  THE  WORLD 

With  the  return  to  town  in  the  fall,  to^be  sure,  there 
began  a  period  of  fierce,  disheartening  struggle,  when 
she  would  wake  from  a  dream  of  him  in  the  night  and 
smother  wild  sobs  in  a  promise  to  go  to  him  in  the 
morning  and  defy  him  to  hold  her  from  him.  But  in 
the  morning  her  courage  would  waver  because  of  his 
threat  to  go  where  she  could  not  find  him,  if  she  came 
back  even  once,  and  because  she  believed  he  would  keep 
his  word.  And  so,  not  to  drive  hope  yet  farther  from 
her,  she  held  back.  Which  shows  that  hope  was  ac- 
tually living  somewhere  in  the  labyrinth  of  her  thought 
—  a  pale,  shy,  shapeless  little  hope  of  some  far- 
away, unimagined  miracle  that  might  strike  the  blind- 
ness from  Julian's  eyes  and  turn  his  will.  Perhaps  it 
was  fear  of  banishing  this  hope,  that  held  her  back 
even  when,  desperate  with  the  need  of  him,  she  had 
gone  to  Mrs.  Bright 's  —  even  rang  the  doorbell  — 
even  stood  at  the  door  of  his  room,  her  hands  over  her 
mouth  lest  the  agony  of  the  strife  should  send  forth 
a  cry.  Once  she  stood  for  an  hour  looking  up  at  his 
window,  regardless  of  passers.  Under  the  pain  of 

261 


262  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


such  hours  hope  ran  far  away  to  hide,  and  desire  to 
live  worthily  for  Julian's  sake  turned  apostate ;  anger 
against  him,  and  the  questions,  even  the  temptation,  of 
the  night  of  her  great  promise  came  wriggling  back. 

Yet,  month  by  month,  the  anguish  of  longing  for 
his  physical  presence  insensibly  dwindled ;  the  moments 
when  it  would  swoop  upon  her  unforeseen  and  tear 
at  her  till  she  cried  for  mercy  had  grown  farther  and 
farther  apart,  until  at  last,  with  the  help  of  hope  per- 
haps, she  had  gotten  her  grip  again  on  the  will  to  keep 
her  promise  —  and  to  forget,  because  safety  lay  only 
in  forgetting.  And  so  one  day,  at  the  top  of  her  new 
resolve,  she  turned  to  look  at  the  world.  And  then, 
doubtless  because  her  mind  was  starving,  it  fell  upon 
food  to  gorge  itself  for  a  while.  At  any  rate,  spying 
the  pantry  of  science  through  the  crack  of  a  door 
opened  by  Poggy,  she  was  for  rushing  in  one  day  to 
snatch  the  covers  off  all  the  jars  at  once.  Whereupon, 
delighted  Poggy  gave  her  a  popular  book  on  chemistry 
—  which  she  actually  read  almost  half  through  —  and 
some  perfectly  incomprehensible  fireside  lectures,  sup- 
plemented, however,  by  one  or  two  delightfully  explo- 
sive object  lessons  in  the  Lynde  Chemical  Company's 
laboratories.  It  was  very  good  on  the  whole  —  this 
chemistry  jar  —  its  fascinations  enduring  through 
three  solid  weeks.  Then,  orgies  of  star  gazing  in  mid- 
winter, till  her  friends  predicted  pneumonia  and  her 
hostess  began  to  read  poetry  with  her.  Mrs.  Lynde, 
in  fact,  was  little  likely  ever  to  plunge  into  scientific 


ZANDRIE    OF    THE    WORLD       263 

excesses  herself.  During  those  fireside  lectures  she 
had  been  shockingly  flippant  or  frankly  bored,  or  some- 
times she  watched  Poggy  with  a  little  contraction  of 
her  lips.  "  I  suppose  he  'd  have  talked  to  me  now  and 
then,"  she  said  once,  "  if  I  'd  only  conceived  an  affec- 
tion for  evil  smells  and  things  that  explode  pre- 
maturely." But  although  she  said  it  with  a  laugh, 
Poggy  looked  puzzled  and  uneasy  and  Zandrie  asked 
herself  whether  his  wife  could  possibly  be  jealous. 

Poetry  was  decidedly  more  diverting  than  the  nebu- 
lar hypothesis,  but  rather  less  safe.  In  fact,  the  only 
poetry  that  seemed  "  safe  "  at  all,  like  "Paradise  Lost," 
could  hardly  hold  one's  attention ;  while  the  poems  that 
could  —  "  Euridice  to  Orpheus  "  or  the  last  pages  of 
"Pompilia,"  for  instance  —  were  so  horribly  unsafe 
that  she  would  have  liked  to  learn  them  by  heart.  A 
distressing  dilemma. 

Early  in  the  winter  the  Lyndes  began  to  talk  of 
adopting  her,  and,  without  taking  any  legal  steps,  they 
yet  went  so  far  as  to  call  her  "  Alex  Lynde  " ;  which, 
more  than  anything  else,  helped  to  assure  her  that  links 
with  the  past  were  breaking.  The  twins  did  not  trou- 
ble her  at  all  after  Christmas,  and  not  so  very  seriously 
even  then,  because  of  another  guest  at  dinner  with 
them.  Mrs.  Lynde  seldom  went  to  see  Julian,  and 
Poggy,  if  he  went  at  all,  never  talked  about  it.  So  no 
wonder  that  by  the  end  of  June  she  could  almost  for- 
get sometimes  for  hours  together.  Small  wonder  that 
at  the  end  of  twelve  months  without  glimpse  of  him,  it 


264  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


had  begun  to  seem  as  though  he  had  really  gone  out  of 
her  life  to  stay,  or  that  she  sometimes  dared  look  the 
thought  in  the  face.  Reason  defied  her  not  to.  But 
beside  reason  stood  a  stupid  doubt  that  could  give  no 
account  of  himself,  yet  refused  to  budge.  "  Julian's 
will  has  barred  the  door,"  said  reason;  "it  will  never 
be  opened."  To  which,  "  Nonsense,  nonsense,"  the 
stupid  doubt  would  mumble.  And  so,  dodging  behind 
both  was  that  little  rascal  of  a  hope  whom,  for  the 
chases  he  led  her,  Zandrie  hated  and  loved  by  turns. 

But  in  proportion  as  Julian  seemed  to  recede  from 
her  life,  the  kaleidoscopic  doctor  was  entering.  He 
was  that  other  guest  when  the  twins  came  to  dinner, 
and  horrid  anxiety  his  watchful  eyes  gave  her  while 
the  twins'  talk  was  of  their  guardian  —  who  was  n't 
half  as  queer  this  time,  they  reported,  as  in  the  sum- 
mer ;  but  he  was  n't  as  much  sport  as  he  used  to 
be,  either,  and  scolded  them  in  earnest  for  putting  up 
money  on  the  Yale-Harvard  game.  But  never  mind ; 
he  was  a  dandy  old  chap  all  right.  His  Puritanical 
weaknesses  were  probably  due  to  advanced  age.  He 
was  twenty-nine,  for  he  said  so!  Mrs.  Lynde  ex- 
plained to  the  Doctor  that  the  patriarch  was  a  family 
friend  like  himself  —  her  dimple  twinkled  wickedly 
as  she  said  that  —  but  that  he  was  an  invalid  and 
unable  to  dine  out.  Marshall  told  Zandrie  that  Cousin 
Ju  thanked  her  for  that  rose, —  did  she  remember? 
But  being  a  man  of  tact,  he  delivered  the  message  in 
the  privacy  of  the  coat  closet.  So  Dr.  Francis  Royce 


ZANDRIE    OF    THE    WORLD        265 

went  away  without  discovering,  through  any  detail  of 
that  evening  at  least,  that  Miss  Alex  Lynde  had  ever 
known  a  Mr.  Furness. 

Judging  by  the  frequency  with  which  his  duties 
called  him  from  Boston  through  this  town  an  hour  and 
a  half  distant,  one  must  infer  that  Dr.  Royce's  practice 
was  phenomenal.  Even  his  flattering  appointment  as 
assistant  to  the  great  Dr.  Ward,  at  his  private  hospital 
in  Boston,  could  not  prevent  a  weekly  call  on  the 
Lyndes.  Yet  when  he  asked  Zandrie  to  marry  him, 
her  dismay  and  surprise  were  equally  real.  "  What ! 
—  live  with  you  always,  when  we  do  n't  even  love  each 
other!" 

But  we  did,  he  insisted ;  so  that  she  laughed  and  said 
that  love  put  on  a  queer  mask. 

"  You  will  love  me,"  he  said  then ;  and  to  her 
"  never,"  "  Hey !  what  do  you  know  about  *  never '  at 
your  age  ?  " 

She  reminded  him  that  she  would  be  nineteen  in 
eight  months;  and  he  took  his  turn  at  laughing. 
"You  bewitching  parcel  of  wilfulness!  —  when  will 
you  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Please  do  n't  talk  about  it." 

"  Talk?  I  '11  talk  till  you  marry  me,  if  it  takes  my 
last  breath  plus  adminstrations  of  oxygen.  I  '11  pro- 
pose once  a  day  by  mail  and  twice  in  person  from  now 
on,  till  you  choose  to  formally  accept  me." 

"  O  me !  "  she  sighed. 

"  I  'm  a  man  of  my  word  —  and  rather  clever  too! 


266  Z  A  N  D  R I  E 


I  knew  how  the  siege  would  open.  Ought  to  have 
chosen  the  army.  I  'd  have  made  a  Napoleon.  I  'd 
have  diagnosed  the  enemy's  case  down  to  the  smallest 
internal  lesion.  If  you'd  accepted  me  to-night  — 
Why,  upon  my  word,  Alex,  I  believe  I  've  just  begun 
to  love  you !  " 

"  You!  "  she  said  to  that,  "  —  you  to  talk  of  love! 
Could  you  love  a  girl  well  enough  to  give 
her  up?" 

Yet,  although  she  asked  that  very  much  in  earnest, 
Dr.  Royce  said  the  question  was  absurd. 

But  sameness  was  not  one  of  the  Doctor's  faults, 
and  his  next  avowal  was  of  quite  terrific  seriousness. 
He  brought  cannon  to  the  siege.  But  the  fort,  after 
firing  a  few  capricious  shots,  subsided  into  silence. 
When  he  declared  eternal  love,  Zandrie  smiled.  At 
his  charge  of  cruelty,  she  smiled  still.  When  he  lost 
patience,  she  skipped  away  to  her  room. 

Next  time  it  was  she  who  lost  patience.  "  You 
do  n't  know  the  A  B  C  of  love,"  she  said.  "  You  'd 
hate  me  if  I  loved  you.  Oh,  I  only  wish  I  c-could !  " 
From  which  sublimely  illogical  height  she  slid  into 
tears  of  pure  vexation  and  escaped  again  to  her  room. 
But,  as  he  rushed  for  his  train,  the  doctor  chanted  a 
war-song.  On  the  train  he  meditated  strategy.  Re- 
sult,—  not  another  proposal  for  two  weeks. 

Meanwhile  the  Lyndes  had  evidently  enlisted  under 
his  flag,  for  Poggy  himself  began  to  alternate  his  ex- 
positions of  the  nebular  hypothesis  (what  did  n't 


ZANDRIE   OF   THE   WORLD      267 

Poggy  know!)  with  eulogiums  of  his  brilliant  young 
friend  Royce  —  "  capital  fellow ;  good  son  of  a  good 
father;  pretty  sure  to  make  his  mark  in  the  surgical 
field  too;  considered  of  uncommon  promise  by  the 
great  Ward  " ;  et  cetera ;  et  cetera.  He  became  posi- 
tively garrulous  —  for  Poggy.  And  his  wife  took 
Zandrie  frankly  to  task.  Any  one  could  see  that 
Dr.  France  loved  her  to  distraction.  In  fact,  he  had 
told  her  —  nice,  frank  man  —  that  he  loved  her 
adopted  niece  with  all  his  heart  and  was  determined  to 
win  her.  It  was  really  a  shame  that  her  dear  Alex, 
even  if  she  could  n't  give  him  her  love,  treated  his  own 
so  carelessly. 

"  That 's  the  way  it  deserves  to  be  treated,"  Zandrie 
said,  and  laughed  at  the  discourse  that  followed.  Had 
Mrs.  Lynde  encouraged  him?  she  asked  at  last. 

O  no !  she  had  n't  given  him  the  least  hope,  she  said ; 
she  had  no  right  to.  But  neither  had  she  the  heart  to 
discourage  him. 

"You  want  me  to  marry  him!" 

"  N-o-o, —  not  unless  you  love  him,  that  is.  Heaven 
forbid!  I  only  want  you  to  be  happy;  and  for  you, 
you  know  —  well,  I  think  I  know  you  well  enough  at 
least  to  see  you  '11  be  happiest  married, —  married  to 
the  right  man.  I  once  thought  —  forgive  my  speak- 
ing of  it  —  that  you  and  Julian  —  I  was  afraid  you 
and  he  were  rather  interested  in  each  other,  perhaps, 
before  that  misunderstanding?  I  don't  know,  of 
course.  He  never  told  me  a  bit  more  than  you  have. 


268  Z  A  N  D  R I  E 


But  I  could  n't  help  feeling,  just  the  same,  that  it 
was  n't  so  unfortunate  —  that  breach.  For  your  sake, 
I  mean.  It  would  take  patience  enough  to  have  any 
man  in  one's  house  all  day,  you  know, —  even  a  Poggy 
in  perfect  condition.  And  poor  old  Julian  can  be 
pretty  terrible.  Used  to  be,  at  any  rate,  when  he  lived 
with  his  aunt  and  hurled  paperweights.  That  sort 
of  thing  may  be  picturesque,  but  it  is  n't  cosy  to  live 
with.  Really,  not  nice.  And  he  had  a  splendidly 
straight  aim.  Not  that  he  ever  aimed  at  her,  of 
course;  but  one  of  his  men  sued  him  for  damages, 
actually!  O  well,  France  Royce  may  not 

be  the  one,  but  he  's  certainly  a  nice,  jolly,  peaceful, 
healthy  —  " 

"  I  hate  him ! "  Zandrie  interrupted,  with  a  stamp 
of  her  foot.  "  And  you  need  n't  talk  about  Julian, 
ever !  And  I  have  n't  any  heart  anyhow !  And  oh !  " 
she  ended  in  tears,  "it 's  all  so  different  from  what 
I  thought ! "  An  ambiguous  remark,  without  doubt. 

But  in  her  room  she  added  —  to  herself  —  that  she 
hated  Mrs.  Lynde;  and  then,  that  Mrs.  Lynde  cer- 
tainly hated  her. 

Paradoxically  enough,  the  first  repulse  that  really 
disheartened  her  lover  was  when  he  first  convinced  her 
of  his  own  ardor;  when  she  cried  with  all  her  heart, 
and  was  sorry  to  have  hurt  him, —  O  yes !  —  but  it 
could  never,  never  be  that  she  .  .  .  There  were 
reasons  .  .  .  Oh,  not  reasons!  That  is,  she 
knew  herself  well  enough  to  know  that  she  could  never 


ZANDRIE   OF    THE    WORLD       269 

love  him, —  never !  Though  Heaven  knew  how  she 
wished  she  could !  Paradoxically,  it  was  when  she 
called  him  "  France "  for  the  first  time,  and  gave 
him  her  hands  of  her  own  free  will,  to  hold  for  al- 
most half  a  minute.  When  she  really  almost  liked 
him  at  last. 

He  walked  away  from  the  encounter  so  slowly  that 
he  missed  his  train;  and  while  waiting  for  the  next, 
he  wrote  her  a  letter  that  included  these  words :  "  Tell 
me  just  this,  for  I  think  that  I  have  a  right  to  know : 
is  one  of  the  '  reasons  '  another  man?  If  so,  I  '11  be- 
have as  well  as  I  can,  dear,  and  try  to  wish  him  joy 
if  he  deserves  it." 

She  wrote  and  destroyed  some  dozen  replies,  and 
was  still  at  it  when  he  appeared,  interrogative,  pale, 
restless  of  body.  He  was  sorry  to  trouble  her  but  the 
suspense  .  .  .  "I  suppose  I  'm  answered  by  your 
silence,"  he  ended. 

"  There  is  the  answer !  "  and  she  pointed  to  the  fire- 
place, where  some  bits  of  paper  speckled  the  logs  with 
white.  She  was  standing  so  as  to  meet  the  better 
what  was  coming. 

"And  it  is?—" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  turning  away. 

"  You  're  not  —  bound,  at  least, —  to  another 
man?" 

Not  bound,  she  said. 

At  the  end  of  a  long  silence  he  took  a  step  nearer. 

"  Don't  touch  me ! "  she  whispered  fiercely :  then, 


270  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


"  Forgive  me,  France.  Can't  you  possibly  —  under- 
stand?" 

Apparently  he  could  not.  At  least,  at  the  end  of  a 
still  longer  silence  he  said  that  he  could  not. 

"  I  'm  not  bound  to  any  man,"  she  repeated  slowly, 
holding  to  the  back  of  a  chair.  "I  shall  never  — 
marry  him.  But  —  but  —  I  shall  never  marry  any 
one  else.  .  .  .  Do  you  understand  now?" 

Apparently  he  did,  for  at  the  end  of  the  longest 
silence  of  all  — in  which  Zandrie  left  the  room  —  he 
uttered  a  brief  command  relating  to  his  rival's  ulti- 
mate spiritual  estate,  not  suitable  for  the  ears  of  ladies, 
—  especially,  for  those  of  the  little  elderly  lady  who 
had  come  to  call  and  was  being  ushered  into  the  sit- 
ting-room at  the  moment  when  the  discomfited  doctor 
wheeled  to  leave  it. 

As  Zandrie  had  not  said  all  that  she  had  meant  to, 
she  wrote  the  rest. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  understand  or  not;  but  if  you 
love  me  at  all,  please,  please  take  my  word  for  it  that  I 
never  can  love  you,  because  I  love  some  one  else  much  bet- 
ter,—  no  matter  whether  I  ever  marry  him  or  not, —  and 
that  I  am  sorry,  for  my  own  sake  more  than  for  yours. 
For  truly,  France,  I  have  it  in  me  to  be  passionate  and 
wicked  and  to  make  people  unhappy,  and  I  might  have  made 
you  unhappier  than  you  think  you  are  now,  if  I  could  have 
loved  you.  If  I  were  you,  I  would  n't  come  any  more  to 
see 

"Yours  unhappily, 
"  A.L." 


ZANDRIE    OF    THE    WORLD       271 

Is  it  necessary  to  write  it  out,  that  he  did  not  fol- 
low this  friendly  advice  ?  But  whatever  he  may  have 
looked,  he  said  no  more  about  love  or  marriage  for 
several  months,  asked  no  questions  about  the  man  she 
loved  better,  and  behaved  so  properly  that  in  June 
Zandrie  consented  to  visit  his  mother  and  sister  Alice, 
who  were  at  their  home  in  Boston  for  a  few  months 
after  two  years  in  Paris.  They  were  to  return  to 
France  in  the  fall. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  in  June  the  twins  made 
Mrs.  Lynde  a  week's  visit  and  that  Zandrie  did  not 
see  them.  And  then  this  teeming  month  closed  with 
an  event  of  more  importance  still, —  the  financial  col- 
lapse of  the  Lynde  Chemical  Company. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

CONTAINING    LAWYER'S    ADVICE 

Yes;  poor,  dear,  scientific  Poggy,  who  knew  almost 
everything  but  the  science  of  making  money,  was 
ruined, —  if  that  dramatic  term  befits  a  man  who  has 
been  barely  able  to  pay  the  interest  on  a  house  mort- 
gaged to  two-thirds  of  its  value,  his  taxes,  and  the 
current  expenses  of  housekeeping,  and  whose  wife  has 
paid  her  dress-makers'  bills  from  her  own  income. 
But  to  the  Lyndes  at  any  rate,  the  past  stood  for  the 
day  of  prosperity,  and  the  future  was  hard  to  face. 
Their  city  property  was  attached,  and  the  laboratory 
bought  by  a  company  that  retained  Mr.  Lynde  on  a 
salary  as  master  chemist ;  but  the  salary  for  two  years 
would  barely  cover  Poggy's  debts,  and  he  was  de- 
termined to  pay.  And  so,  but  for  Mrs.  Lynde's  in- 
come, which  included  the  rent  from  her  sea-shore  cot- 
tage, they  must  ultimately  have  found  themselves  de- 
pendent upon  the  charity  of  their  creditors,  relatives, 
or  friends.  Trial  by  newspaper  closed  with  an  hon- 
orable acquittal  for  Poggy.  "  The  collapse  of  the 
Lynde  Chemical  Company,"  said  the  Town  Crier, 
"  is  an  honest,  straightforward  failure,  due  in  part,  we 

272 


LAWYER'S    ADVICE  273 

are  informed  on  irrefutable  authority,  to  changes  in 
the  tariff,  and  in  part  to  bad  judgment."  But  although 
this  verdict  of  "  dull  but  good  hearted  "  ought  to  have 
sent  him  on  his  way,  grateful  and  somewhat  consoled, 
the  perverse  little  man  hung  his  head,  scuttling  through 
the  streets  in  all  the  nervous  silence  of  a  convicted 
felon.  At  a  distance,  he  passed  for  an  old  man ;  nearer, 
he  suggested  a  puzzled  child  with  the  eyes  of  a 
whipped  spaniel.  His  wife's  jokes  during  the  first 
months  after  his  failure  sometimes  brought  a  startled 
comprehension  to  his  eyes,  but  no  laughter;  and  most 
of  them  went  by  unheeded.  She  made  them,  nowa- 
days, only  in  his  presence  or  when  she  was  with  cer- 
tain acquaintances  of  whom  she  was  not  very  fond. 
Alone  with  Zandrie,  she  was  almost  as  silent  as  he, 
and  when  spoken  to,  often  answered  petulantly.  For 
it  was  the  poor  lady's  first  meeting  with  poverty,  and 
the  ways  of  that  ungracious  dame  were  little  to  her 
taste. 

Zandrie,  meanwhile,  coming  to  understand  the  de- 
tails of  the  catastrophe  by  degrees,  discovered  that  all 
things  may  and  that  most  things  do  have  commercial 
value,  in  the  light  of  which  prodigious  knowledge  she 
began  to  see  her  past  self  as  a  thankless  object  of  char- 
ity, and  her  present  self  as  a  costly  encumbrance. 
For,  through  more  than  a  year  now  she  had  been  ac- 
cepting the  gifts  of  expensive  shelter,  expensive  food, 
and  expensive  clothes,  with  the  unreflecting,  simple  in- 
gratitude of  a  child.  A  dog,  she  said,  would  not  have 

18 


274  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


taken  favors  so  for  granted.  The  idea  that  mere 
physical  existence  could  cost  money,  was  absolutely 
new  to  her;  combined  with  the  realization  that  hers 
cost  what  looked,  in  the  glare  of  her  brand-new  eco- 
nomics, like  an  inordinate  sum, —  and  cost  it  to  those 
too  who  could  now  hardly  pay  for  their  own  needs, — 
it  was  appalling.  And  so,  when  the  Lyndes  moved  in 
August  into  a  small  second-floor  apartment  and  kept 
no  maid,  Zandrie  plunged  into  the  housework  with 
frantic  zeal;  though  as  a  matter  of  fact,  some  such 
activity  of  body  was  what  she  had  craved  through 
all  the  restless  year  of  stifled  passion,  and  was  wel- 
come even  now,  in  August. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  sultry  day  on  which 
they  moved,  a  box  of  roses  came  for  her.  Her  eyes 
filled  as  she  pressed  the  moist,  exquisitely  cool  petals 
against  her  eyelids.  It  was  a  brilliant  coup  of  the 
Doctor's,  that,  though  he  sent  flowers  often  enough, 
to  be  sure.  But  to-day  was  so  particularly  horridly 
hot,  and  the  rooms  in  such  a  dreadful  state  of  chaos! 
And  so,  "  dear  France ! "  she  whispered  in  a  sudden 
exuberance  of  gratitude  that —  Well,  perhaps  if  he 
had  come  in  at  that  moment  .  .  . 

Yet  when  he  did  arrive  only  two  days  later,  his  re- 
ception was  not  encouraging.  She  met  him,  in  fact, 
in  a  blaze  of  wrath.  "  I  won't  have  it ! "  she  said, 
when  they  were  alone  on  the  small  balcony.  "  I  've 
seen  Mr.  Johnson  this  very  morning.  I  was  writing 
to  you  now.  He  told  me." 


LAWYER'S    ADVICE  275 

Dr.  Royce  raised  his  eyebrows  in  innocence.  "  Who 
is  Mr.  Johnson,  in  the  first  place  ?  " 

Zandrie  stamped  her  foot  —  to  keep  from  crying. 

"  On  my  honor,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  the  Lyndes'  law- 
yer?" 

She  eyed  him  eloquently  till  she  made  sure  of  her 
voice.  "  I  will  not  have  your  help.  I  can  support 
myself  soon  somehow, —  I  know  I  can.  And  I 
ought  n't  to  live  here  any  longer  anyway."  Her  logic 
was  probably  not  quite  plain  to  the  doctor,  either. 
"  Aunt  Edith  does  n't  want  me  any  more."  She  had 
called  Mrs.  Lynde  "  Aunt  Edith  "  since  early  in  the 
winter.  "  She  does  n't !  She  hates  me  sometimes, 
because  I  don't  tell  her  everything, —  and  because  she 
says  I  'm  volcanic  and  she  hates  everything  that  ex- 
plodes; and  yet  she  always  wants  new  things,  too. 
She  wants  me  to  marry  you ! "  This  last  was  punc- 
tuated by  a  burst  of  tears. 

The  Doctor  started  towards  her  but  wisely  grasped 
a  post  of  the  balcony  instead.  "  My  thanks  to  Mrs. 
Lynde,"  he  said. 

"  She  —  she  always  leaves  us  alone  together.  And 
Mr.  Johnson  was  ab-abominable !  O  how  could  you 
think  it  would  help  your  cause  to  assume  so !  I  never 
encouraged  you  the  least  bit,  but  I  loved  you  compared 
with  —  with  now.  I  — " 

"  Alex !  "  he  interrupted  in  a  tone  that  caught  her 
attention,  for  it  was  neither  of  anger  nor  self-defense. 
"  I  am  in  the  dark,  and  I  think  that  you  are." 


276  ZANDRIE 


She  stared  at  him  as  though  she  were  indeed. 

"  Suppose  you  tell  me,"  he  said,  "  what  Mr.  John- 
son told  you." 

"  About  your  —  about  the  offer  of  money, —  the 
'  provision '  for  me.  .  .  .  You  don't  mean  — " 

"  I  know  absolutely  nothing  about  it.  Some  one 
has  offered,  you  say,  to  provide  — " 

"  And  Mr.  Johnson  said  —  Why  France !  —  are 
you  sure?  " 

"  Sure  that  I  have  n't  offered  to  support  you  on  the 
assumption  of  a  possible  future  right  ?  Yes,  I  'm 
quite  sure.  If  you  knew  a  little  more  about  the 
world,  dear, — " 

"  You  know  nothing  about  it  —  the  offer?  " 

"  Nothing.  I  suppose  I  shall  hope  insanely  till  you 
marry  some  one  else,  but  I  'm  not  so  stupid,  in  the 
first  place,  as  to — " 

"  O  France, —  I  'm  sorry !  "  And  to  prove  it,  she 
did  something  for  which  of  course  there  is  no  excuse ; 
flung  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  wilted  the  left  side 
of  his  collar  with  tears.  "  No,  it 's  only  an  apol- 
ogy !  "  she  gasped,  trying  to  withdraw.  "  I  love  any 
one  when  I  've  hurt  their  feelings !  No,  don't  touch 
me  any  more.  But,  O  listen  how  it  was!  I  was  so 
troubled  about  the  Lyndes'  money  matters  and 
could  n't  talk  to  them,  of  course,  so  I  went  to  Mr. 
Johnson.  I  wanted  so  much  to  understand  better. 
But  he  only  smiled  and  advised  me  to  marry!  Oh! 
And  he  said  the  Lyndes  told  him  some  one  had  of- 


LAWYER'S    ADVICE  277 

fered  to  provide  for  me,  but  that  I  should  doubtless 
marry  soon  anyway,  and  he  looked  so  outrageously 
sly  when  he  said  that !  O  I  hate  him !  And  of  course 
I  thought — " 

"  I  see.  Your  apology  was  more  than  I  deserved 
although  I  was  innocent.  .  .  .  You  look  as 
though  you'd  been  worrying.  Why?" 

But  she  scarcely  heard,  for  the  affair  of  the  prof- 
fered money  had  become  a  mystery  demanding  solu- 
tion, which  a  little  demon  had  suddenly  offered  in  one 
word,— "Julian!" 

France  had  to  repeat  his  question ;  "  Why  have 
you  been  worrying?" 

"  The  Lyndes  might  have  taken  a  smaller  —  less 
expensive  apartment  but  for  me,"  she  said  at  last, 
"and  could  keep  a  maid." 

"  Mrs.  Lynde  never  said  that !  " 

No  answer;  but  as  he  was  silent,  too,  she  looked 
up.  He  took  a  sudden  step  nearer  and  caught  her 
hands.  "Dear!  come  to  me!  Take  me  on  trust. 
I  '11  make  you  love  me  some  day.  You  brave,  beauti- 
ful little  girl !  I  '11  make  you  happy  somehow.  Never 
mind  if  you  can't  love  me  yet;  I  '11  be  happy  enough 
just  trying  to  make  you  happy.  I  ask  for  nothing 
now  but  the  right  to  do  that." 

"  Dear  France !  "  she  said,  "  perhaps  you  really  do 
love  me  a  little !  " 

"You '11  marry  me?" 

"  No.     Yet  of  course  I  'd  be  happier  —  oh,  much 


278  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


happier  with  you  than  —  here, —  except  for  poor 
Poggy.  I  love  him  dearly.  And  while  you  spoke,  I 
even  dreamed  —  But  it 's  gone !  " 

"  Alex !  "  he  cried.     But  she  herself  was  gone. 

When  she  told  Mrs.  Lynde  of  her  talk  with  the 
lawyer  and  explained  how  she  had  wanted  to  un- 
derstand their  financial  condition  so  as  to  see  more 
clearly  how  to  help,  Mrs.  Lynde  kissed  her  for  the 
first  time  in  several  weeks. 

"  So  you  do  love  me  a  little  still  ?  "  Zandrie  asked. 

But,  "  Don't  be  queer,  dear,"  was  the  answer  to 
that. 

Zandrie  caught  her  breath,  and  then  went  on  with 
her  account. 

Some  one  had  offered  to  provide  for  her,  Mrs. 
Lynde  admitted,  but  she  had  not  the  right  to  tell  who, 
she  said;  and  added  that  if  they  had  thought  of  her 
consulting  Mr.  Johnson  in  secret,  they  would  have 
asked  him  not  to  mention  the  matter.  They  had  de- 
cided to  refuse  the  money. 

Zandrie  winced.     "  Why  did  you  refuse  ?  " 

"  Foolish  pride,  perhaps.  We  took  the  responsibil- 
ity of  you  and  prefer  to  stand  by  it." 

Stung  anew  by  the  sense  of  alienation,  she  clasped 
her  hands  under  her  chin,  and  watched  Mrs.  Lynde 
thread  a  needle.  And  at  last,  "  Perhaps  I  ought  to 
marry  France,"  she  said. 

The  idea  had  never  occurred  to  her  before.  But 
once  over  the  border,  it  invaded  her  thought  again  and 


LAWYER'S    ADVICE  279 

again,  perhaps  for  the  very  reason  that  she  fought  it. 
For  all  her  confidence  that  she  could  soon  support 
herself,  her  efforts  throughout  the  fall  to  earn  any 
money  whatever  had  been  in  vain,  and  it  was  Decem- 
ber at  last.  She  had  no  skill  in  sewing,  and  was  glad, 
she  hated  it  so;  but  she  had  tried  to  find  pupils  in 
French,  and  had  written  to  an  institution  for  the  deaf 
and  dumb,  detailing  in  impassioned  language  her  ex- 
perience with  the  McClungs.  And  meanwhile,  it  was 
plain  that  Mrs.  Lynde,  though  she  disliked  housework 
and  appreciated  Zandrie's  help,  was  tiring  of  her  bar- 
gain. Inevitably,  perhaps,  since  she  was  one  of  those 
unemotional  persons,  in  the  first  place,  who  find  it  hard 
to  believe  the  emotion  of  others  quite  genuine ;  who  at 
best  dislike  its  uncontrolled  display,  perhaps  because  it 
touches  their  vanity,  tacitly  demanding  something 
more  than  they  have  in  themselves  to  give.  "  Alex 
makes  me  feel  like  a  glacier,"  she  said  once.  "  Don't 
see  why,  for  I  'm  neither  icy  nor  uncommonly  slow. 
But  I  'm  not  a  volcano,  either.  One  can  love  or  hate, 
I  take  it,  as  well  as  keep  house,  decently  and  in  order." 
But  then,  the  irritation  of  living  too  near  a  volcano 
was  doubtless  aggravated  by  the  volcano's  perversity. 
When  a  little  eruption  might  have  made  a  diversion, 
for  instance,  it  would  scarcely  smoke.  Zandrie's  reti- 
cences were  always  ill-timed,  it  seemed.  And  at  last, 
when  only  a  miraculous  combination  of  favoring  cir- 
cumstances could  have  saved  the  day,  circumstance 
itself  turned  perverse.  One  day  in  December,  for  in- 


280  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


stance,  Poggy  came  home  at  noon,  his  face  drawn 
with  some  new  misery,  and  so  far  from  seeing  humor 
in  the  fact  that  his  wife  was  at  a  small  fire  half  a  mile 
away,  burst  into  tears.  Zandrie,  who  had  never  seen 
a  man  weep,  kissed,  comforted,  and  was  scolding 
gently,  her  arms  about  him,  when  Mrs.  Lynde  came  in. 
And  Mrs.  Lynde  was  a  jealous  soul,  as  Zandrie  had 
long  since  discovered;  so  the  situation  was  trying  for 
all  three. 

And  so  it  came  about  in  one  way  and  another 
that  Zandrie  sat  at  her  desk  on  a  certain  December 
evening  and  faced  what  seemed  but  the  simple  fact 
that  she  was  refusing  to  exchange  a  home  where  she 
was  not  needed  nor  really  desired,  for  one  where  she 
was  wanted  very  much.  Marriage,  that  is,  still  meant 
little  more  than  an  exchange  of  homes.  None  of  her 
reading  had  taught  its  meaning,  and  she  had  never 
discussed  it  except  with  Julian.  And  so,  in  refusing 
to  marry  France  because  she  did  not  love  him,  she 
called  herself  a  coward  at  last,  whom  a  brave  man 
might  well  despise.  A  coward,  and  selfish;  for, 
whether  France  was  capable  of  a  love  that  would  meet 
all  tests  or  not,  he  was  plainly  unhappy  without  her. 
And  she  knew  that  he  knew  she  had  little  to  give. 

Little  indeed!  And  whenever  more  seemed  most 
possible,  there  would  come  some  new,  poignant  re- 
minder, like  the  affair  of  the  proffered  money.  That 
bothered  her  still  at  moments,  for  the  same  teasing 
sprite  that  had  whispered  "  Julian,"  now  set  specula- 


LAWYER'S    ADVICE  281 

tion  whirling  about  the  question  "why?  "  And  spec- 
ulation brought  not  only  memories  with  their  dull, 
bodily  pain,  but,  lately,  a  grievous  question  —  the 
question  of  Julian's  love.  For  people  could  love  much, 
and  cease  to  love.  Had  she  not  met  an  instance  her- 
self, in  Mrs.  Lynde?  And  a  man's  love,  she  read, 
was  oftener  short  lived  than  a  woman's.  And  so, 
lacking  the  knowledge  that  a  man's  way  of  life  gives 
more  opportunity  to  forget  than  the  lives  of  most 
women,  and  not  realizing  that  Julian's  had  become 
like  a  woman's  in  its  dearth  of  opportunity,  she  grew 
to  be  tormented  by  doubts.  When  she  asked  herself 
what  his  having  offered  the  money  might  prove  con- 
cerning his  love,  common  sense  answered  "  nothing." 
If  he  had  asked  permission  to  provide  for  her,  it  was 
only  because  he  was  the  instrument  of  her  coming  to 
the  Lyndes.  It  was  of  them  that  he  was  mindful. 
There  was  nothing  —  absolutely  nothing  in  her  pres- 
ent life  to  prove  or  even  to  hint  that  he  cared  for  her 
still. 

But  for  all  that,  and  though  she  fought  her  own 
passion,  that  passion  was  still  the  link  that  coupled  any 
fact  to  her  life,  as  a  thing  of  meaning  and  convinc- 
ing reality.  All  other  things  became  at  moments  a 
whirl  of  unrelated,  bloodless  inanities  at  which  she 
looked  as  from  afar,  indifferent  where  they  came 
from  or  whither  they  went.  Whatever  had  no  kinship 
with  her  love  had  therefore  no  power  upon  her  for  ill 
or  good ;  could  not  matter.  And  Royce  himself  was  a 


282  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


part  of  the  whirl  till  the  day  when  she  said  "  perhaps 
I  ought  to  marry  him."  For  Julian  was  at  the  core 
of  every  "  ought  " ;  and  justification  of  the  sacrifice  he 
had  once  made  was  still  the  heart  of  her  motive  to  a 
difficult  act.  If  marriage  with  France  involved  sacri- 
fice of  herself,  what  better  justification  of  his?  At 
worst,  if  he  loved  her  no  longer,  the  score  would  be 
cleared.  At  worst,  she  could  still  cling  to  the  pride 
that  he  had  loved  her  once  as  though  she  were  worth 
the  heavy  cost;  and  if  he  no  longer  loved  her  so, — 
well,  that  was  at  least  no  reason  why  she  should  not 
marry  another  man.  The  more  why  she  should!  for 
new  surroundings  were  the  best  help  to  forgetting, 
people  said;  and  she  must  forget,  or  ... 

These  thoughts,  how  well  she  knew  them!  She 
had  had  little  peace  of  her  life,. these  four  months  past, 
because  of  them.  She  was  very  weary  of  wrestling 
with  them,  at  last. 

Her  hand  moved  towards  the  inkstand,  to  write  to 
Royce,  and  then  went  up  to  cover  her  eyes  instead. 
Not  while  Julian  was  living!  Not  while  she  was  un- 
certain of  his  love,  and  hope  still  lived.  For  mar- 
riage was  forever,  and  even  for  Julian's  sake  she 
could  hardly  have  killed  hope  with  her  own  hands. 
Not  to-night,  at  any  rate. 

But  the  door  of  Mrs.  Lynde's  room  opposite,  opened 
suddenly,  and  Poggy's  voice  rang  out,  peevish,  almost 
angry.  "  Why  ?  .  .  .  Why,  for  the  sake  of  ex- 
citement, I  suppose, —  for  something  new.  Forever 


LAWYER'S   ADVICE  283 

something  new !  I  told  you  at  the  time,  I  'd  give  you 
six  months  to  tire  of  your  new  toy.  I  warned  — " 

His  wife's  voice  interrupted.  "  When  it  came  to 
adopting  her,  you  were  as  anxious  as  I.  You  were 
more !  —  you  know  you  were !  " 

"  Because  I  was  a  fool !  "  cried  Poggy,  with  a  pas- 
sion to  which  he  was,  in  Zandrie's  knowledge  of  him, 
a  stranger. 

She  had  never  witnessed  the  Lyndes  at  strife.  And 
she  had  brought  it.  And  Poggy  —  Poggy  himself 
had  failed  her. 

"  France,"  she  wrote,  "  come  to  me  quick! " 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN  THE  CATHOLIC  CHURCH 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  after  her  note  to 
France,  she  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  Lyndes'  apart- 
ment watching  his  retreat.  His  very  back  was  ex- 
ultant, and  when  he  turned  at  the  corner  to  raise  his 
hat  to  her  once  more,  he  did  it  so  eloquently  that  a 
little  newsboy  yelled  "  Let  us  pray !  " —  an  idea  that 
pleased  the  little  boy  so  acutely  that  he  yelled  it  in- 
stead of  his  paper  for  several  minutes;  but  the  gen- 
tleman who  had  raised  his  hat  took  no  offence,  so  that 
"Yah!"  the  little  boy  snorted,  "but  he's  a  soft!" 
That  he  was  an  obnoxiously  successful,  happy  person, 
there  was  no  doubt. 

When  he  had  turned  the  corner,  Zandrie  put  her 
hand  over  her  eyes  and  then  shivered  slightly;  but 
perhaps  that  was  because  she  stood  there  without  a 
coat.  She  was  singing,  at  any  rate,  a  few  minutes 
later  as  she  dressed  for  supper  at  the  Lawson  farm 
where  she  was  going  to-night  to  help  celebrate  Flo- 
tilla's birthday;  and  she  carried  light-heartedness 
there,  as  though  some  drops  of  the  joy  of  the  man 
she  had  promised  to  marry  had  spilled  over  into  her 


IN    THE    CATHOLIC    CHURCH     285 

own  heart.  Joy  so  abundant  and  bubbling  might  well 
overflow.  But  whatever  the  reason,  it  was  a  merry 
evening,  and  the  first  true  merriment  that  she  had 
known  in  many  months.  She  romped  with  the  chil- 
dren until  they  screamed  with  glee  and  Charley  roared 
in  grief  at  her  departure.  How  she  loved  them !  — 
funny,  solemn  Flotilla,  and  turbulent  Charley,  and 
even  forlorn,  peevish  scrap  of  a  Jamie  who  smiled  and 
even  laughed  sometimes  when  she  held  him.  As  she 
put  him  to  bed  to-night,  a  thought  had  come  that  shook 
her  like  a  burst  of  music :  if  she  married  France,  per- 
haps she  might  have  children  of  her  own!  Or  was 
that  miracle  performed  only  for  those  who  loved  one 
another,  as  Sister  Andrea  once  said?  Oh,  surely  not 
if  one  were  faithful  as  though  one  loved,  doing  daily 
duties  well;  if  she  filled  the  empty  vessel  of  love  with 
kindness,  surely  God  would  count  the  hard  sacrifice 
worthy  of  easy  love's  reward! 

The  thought  followed  her  as  she  walked  home, 
Farmer  Lawson  trudging  beside  her  in  silence  as 
though  he  too  were  under  the  spell  of  the  marvelous 
night ;  for  the  full  moon  hung  low  over  the  hills,  and 
although  Christmas  was  at  hand,  and  snow  on  the 
fields,  the  air  was  tremulous  with  reminiscences  of  In- 
dian summer,  and  the  road  lay  through  a  white,  mist- 
haunted  land  created  by  the  spirits  of  moonlight  for 
ecstacy  and  dreams. 

When  they  reached  the  center  of  the  town,  the 
business  streets  were  thronged  with  Christmas  shop- 


286  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


pers,  whose  good  nature  was  put  to  the  test  by  the 
long  halt  of  the  farmer  and  his  companion  before  a 
window  baited  with  a  distracting  bevy  of  silk  petti- 
coats. "  My  wife's  mind,"  he  murmured,  "  has  been 
deeply  set  on  one  of  them  gewgaws  for  I  don't  know 
how  long!  "  And  he  stood  apparently  hypnotized  by 
the  spectacle  till  Zandrie,  laughing,  dragged  him  away. 
She  would  have  liked  to  stop  herself,  however,  in  front 
of  the  Catholic  church  a  few  blocks  on,  to  listen  to  the 
music  that  streamed  out  through  an  open  door;  she 
would  have  liked  better  still  to  go  inside,  for  the  night 
was  made  for  music,  and  the  organist  played  well :  she 
knew,  because  he  was  Julian's  friend  and  she  had 
gone  to  mass  in  order  to  see  him  and  hear  him  play, 
one  morning  during  the  period  of  sharpest  conflict 
with  her  own  will.  "  I  am  going  to  mass  once  more," 
she  had  told  the  Lyndes,  laughing,  "  for  old  times' 
sake ! "  And  she  had  for  a  fact  recited  her  rosary 
at  the  Virgin's  altar,  to  the  intent  that  Julian's  will 
might  be  turned  at  last.  But  her  belief  in  his  stead- 
fastness was  stronger  than  her  confidence  in  the  Vir- 
gin's power  to  touch  him.  When  she  went  to  church 
at  all  nowadays,  it  was  with  the  Lyndes,  who  were 
Unitarians.  But  the  reason  why  she  did  not  go  into 
the  church  to-night  was  because  Farmer  Lawson's  own 
mind  was  now  deeply  set  upon  getting  her  home  as 
quickly  as  possible,  that  he  might  hurry  back  to  the 
shop  of  silk  petticoats.  As  for  the  reminder  of  the 
toilsome  past,  brought  by  the  organ  music  of  Julian's 


IN    THE    CATHOLIC    CHURCH     287 

friend,  it  could  not  touch  the  peace  of  her  present 
hour,  which  was  the  peace  of  a  long- fought  resolve 
and  a  struggle  ended. 

On  their  way  through  one  of  the  quieter  streets  she 
awoke  to  a  crescendo  of  curious  sounds  that  presently 
unraveled  into  a  creak  of  wheels,  a  shuffle  of  slow 
footsteps,  and  a  torrent  of  foreign  words  poured  out 
so  rapidly  that  at  first  she  did  not  recognize  them  as 
French.  Suddenly  the  voice  was  cut  off  by  a  laugh 
at  whose  sound  her  heart-beats  stopped  and  then  leaped 
struggling  against  an  onslaught  of  smothering  joy. 

They  were  coming  towards  her,  were  almost  upon 
her, —  Carter  and  a  stranger  and  Julian.  He  was 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  without  a  hat,  listening  to 
the  hurried  French  of  an  old  man  with  long  white 
side-whiskers,  who  walked  beside  him.  The  moon 
shone  full  on  his  face,  where  the  last  of  the  laugh 
lingered  so  that  for  a  moment  the  dream-Julian  of 
the  past  was  there  before  her  eyes,  with  face  un- 
touched by  passion  or  pain,  beautiful  under  the  magic 
of  the  moon.  But  before  he  had  passed,  the  smile  was 
gone,  the  lines  were  plain  beside  his  mouth,  and  she 
saw  his  face  willful  and  human,  as  she  had  seen  it 
last,  so  that  she  must  have  cried  out  to  him  but  for 
the  look  of  a  stranger  that  he  gave  her. 

It  was  over  already!  They  had  turned  a  corner 
and  were  gone.  He  had  passed  without  knowing  her, 
because  her  face  was  hid  in  the  shadow  of  her  hat. 
Oh,  but  it  was  strange  to  feel  Julian's  eyes  meet  hers 


288  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


without  an  answer!  He  had  passed  so  near  that  by 
stretching  out  her  arm  she  might  have  touched  his 
forehead.  But  she  had  heard  the  laugh  for  which 
her  ears  had  starved  for  a  year  and  a  half. 

Mr.  Lawson  turned  several  times  to  look  after  the 
group.  "  Bust  me,"  he  said  at  last,  "  if  that  wa'n't 
Billy's  Mr.  Furness, —  that  chap  in  the  chair;  but 
bust  me  if  I  know  the  dago  with  the  whiskers."  After 
a  profound  pause  he  added,  "  He  ought  to  dock  them 
whiskers." 

A  tempestuous  need  to  be  alone  shook  Zandrie,  and 
she  stopped.  "  See !  "  she  said,  "  there  's  no  need  of 
your  coming  farther  out  of  your  way  with  me.  I  'm 
almost  home, —  quite  safe, —  only  three  blocks  from 
this  corner.  Thank  you  so  much." 

And  so,  though  he  demurred  a  little,  she  was  rid  of 
him. 

Then  a  blind  impulse  turned  her  back  towards  the 
spot  where  Julian  and  she  had  met,  dragging  her  at 
last  at  a  run.  But  when  she  reached  it  and  leaned 
faint  and  quivering  against  a  fence,  gripping  its  iron 
palings,  the  emptiness  of  the  place  mocked  her,  till  at 
last,  with  hands  clasped  hard  against  her  throat,  she 
began  to  walk  on  towards  the  corner  that  he  had 
turned.  No  trace  of  him :  the  street  was  as  empty  as 
though  she  had  dreamed  of  his  passing;  yet  he  could 
not  have  gone  very  far;  he  must  easily  be  found. 

She  broke  into  a  run  again.  The  year  of  struggle 
to  forget  was  itself  forgotten, —  everything  forgotten 


IN    THE    CATHOLIC    CHURCH     289 

now  but  Julian  and  the  need  for  sight  and  touch  and 
sound  of  him  once  more.  She  ran  as  though  pursued, 
breathing  in  sobs. 

All  at  once,  before  she  could  quite  stop,  she  had 
stumbled  against  something  in  her  path,  and  then 
stared  at  it  in  panting  stupefaction.  It  was  Julian's 
chair.  When  she  looked  up  at  last,  she  saw  that  she 
was  at  the  steps  of  the  Catholic  church,  and  she  un- 
derstood ;  he  was  in  there,  listening  to  the  music. 

The  church  was  dark  but  for  a  few  moonbeams 
raveled  by  stained  glass  into  strands  of  misty  color, 
for  the  little  red  glow  of  the  chancel  lamp,  and  one 
light  in  the  gallery  of  the  left  transept,  where  the 
white-haired  foreigner  sat  at  the  organ.  She  remem- 
bered now  how,  when  he  had  passed  in  the  moonlight, 
his  absurdly  long  side-whiskers  seemed  to  be  falling 
in  two  white  streams  down  his  black  coat.  Julian's 
friend,  the  organist  of  the  church,  stood  beside  him 
answering  questions  about  the  stops.  Here  and  there 
one  could  make  out  the  kneeling  figure  of  a  woman. 
But  half  way  up  the  aisle  along  which  Zandrie  stole, 
two  men  sat,  one  in  front  of  the  other,  and  the  nearer 
was  Julian.  With  head  bent  low,  she  crept  into  the 
pew  behind  him. 

His  arm  lay  along  the  back  of  the  seat,  his  hand 
so  close  that  by  bending  ever  so  slightly,  her  lips  could 
have  touched  it.  The  whisper  of  his  name  could  make 
him  turn  and  know  her  —  the  lightest  whisper ;  yet  she 
made  never  a  sound,  nor  stirred,  for,  blindly,  some- 

19 


290  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


how,  she  had  stumbled  into  the  idea  that  to  make  her- 
self known  just  now  would  spoil  the  peace  of  the  hour 
for  him;  that  he  was  rarely  happy  to-night,  so  that 
for  his  sake  she  must  be  still  at  least  until  the  music 
that  had  begun  again  was  finished.  And  then — ? 
Her  thought  reeled,  and  the  words  "  for  his  sake  " 
made  a  riot  in  her  brain,  domineering  over  reason  and 
even  the  mad  impulse  that  hardly  dared  name  itself 
as  yet.  And  in  the  end  "  for  his  sake  "  won.  The 
months  in  the  school  of  self  sacrifice  had  not  gone  for 
nothing,  after  all;  and  she  knelt  there  like  a  good  be- 
liever, quite  still  but  for  the  trembling  that  she  could 
not  master.  But  he  must  hear  the  beating  of  her 
heart,  she  thought. 

"  Awful  prayerful  woman,"  Carter  whispered,  but 
got  no  answer. 

A  minute  later  he  tiptoed  out  to  fetch  the  chair  that 
he  had  left  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

If  Julian  had  turned  while  he  was  gone  .  .  . 
But  he  was  attending  to  the  old  musician  who  was  say- 
ing his  say  in  the  face  of  the  moonlit  night,  unabashed ; 
and  because  he  was  listening,  she  tried  to  listen  too. 
While  the  organ  whispered  violin  mysteries,  however, 
it  could  not  hold  her,  for  in  this  hour  she  gripped  real- 
ity at  its  core,  and  mysteries,  questionings,  doubts, 
withdrew  till  they  were  as  though  they  had  never 
been.  But  a  hymn  of  blaring  victory  and  many- 
voiced  praise  was  another  matter ;  and  when  there  had 
come  a  pause  out  of  which  stole  a  limpid  note,  and 


IN    THE    CATHOLIC    CHURCH     291 

another  joined  with  it,  and  yet  others,  till  the  throbbing 
pedal-tones  closed  in,  helping  the  chord  to  climb  until 
it  burst  at  the  top  of  its  glory  into  a  tumult  of  voices 
challenging  the  brain  and  stirring  the  heart  —  then 
the  heart  of  her  leapt  above  the  riot  and  rode  with 
the  highest  voice  as  a  bird  on  the  wind. 

And  then  it  was  over  and  gone  —  locked  away  for- 
ever by  the  past  in  its  cell  of  silence;  and  Julian 
caught  his  breath  quiveringly. 

"  Julien !  "  the  player  called  from  his  gallery.  "  C 
est  tine  fugue  effroyable  —  <;a  —  et  immortale, 
hein?  "  It  was  a  merry  old  voice,  silver,  somehow,  as 
his  hair.  "  Mine !  —  mine  own  fugue !  You  reco'- 
nize?  You  have  often  play  it,  hein?  —  in  the  old 
times  ?  .  .  Mais  mon  Dieu !  —  il  est  tard !  II 
f aut  que  je  fuisse !  "  There  were  some  hurried  words 
to  the  man  beside  him,  whom  he  left  to  close  the  or- 
gan ;  then  a  clattering  descent  of  wooden  stairs. 

The  music  was  gone :  a  moment  more  and  Julian 
would  follow  it.  One  must  spend  well  the  treasure 
still  left.  His  hand  lay  so  near  that  she  could  see 
the  veins  and  all  but  feel  the  vital  warmth  that 
pledged  its  reality.  The  yearning  to  kiss  it  cut  like 
a  sabre.  .  .  .  Why  not  kiss  it?  What  harm  if 
she  did?  She  owed  him  no  more  than  the  peace  of 
the  hour  just  given :  he  had  listened  untroubled,  and 
the  music  was  over.  It  was  only  silly  fear  of  him, 
then,  that  held  her  own  hands  against  her  lips;  and 
he  had  done  his  worst  already  in  putting  her  from 


292  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


him,  to  grope  through  the  world,  alone.  Then  why 
not  dare  to  snatch  what  draught  of  joy  offered  itself 
in  the  wilderness  where  he  had  set  her? 

She  took  her  hands  from  her  lips  to  touch  the  cup. 
It  was  too  late.  The  old  musician  was  come  to  take 
the  part  of  her  fear  against  her.  The  cup  was  broken. 

Head  lifted  and  eyes  wide  with  despair,  she  watched 
his  agile  transit  over  the  pew  partitions  to  the  aisle 
and  Julian's  side.  With  a  moonbeam  blessing  his 
white  head,  he  might  have  passed  for  some  merry  old 
saint  instead  of  a  thief  of  hope. 

When  he  flung  an  arm  about  Julian's  neck  and 
kissed  his  cheek,  she  all  but  cried  out  "  Julien 
aime !  "  She  caught  the  whisper  easily  enough.  "  Tu 
aurais  joue  aussi  bien  que  moi.  Mais  oui !  —  c'  est 
tout  certain.  .  .  .  Tu  as  de  bien  bon  courage, 
mais  .  .  .  c'  est  damnable !  —  c'  est  impossible ! 
.  .  .  Monsieur  Widor  remember  you,  he  has  said. 
I  have  ask  him  always  when  we  encounter,  and  he 
has  not  forget.  It  is  a  grand  performer,  that !  — 
greater  than  me,  hein?  But!  —  my  train  it  will  flee 
away  without  me  unless  —  Au  revoir.  Au  revoir. 
At  the  next  time  we  have  —  plus  de  causerie,  n'  est- 
ce  pas?  Au  revoir!  II  faut  que  je — "  But  he  was 
speeding  down  the  aisle  without  telling  what. 

The  young  man  in  the  organ-loft  leaned  over  the 
rail.  "  Makes  a  Yankee  musician  feel  like  going  out 
of  business!  .  .  .  Join  you  outside,  Furness. 
Have  to  lock  up.  Don't  wait :  I  '11  overtake  you." 


IN    THE    CATHOLIC    CHURCH       293 

"  Pick  up  your  dolly,  then,"  Julian  said  to  Carter. 

She  watched  Carter  lift  him  into  the  chair  that  stood 
at  hand,  facing  her;  and  for  a  few  seconds,  in  the 
thin  wash  of  light  from  the  organ-loft,  she  saw  his 
face  again,  and  he  saw  her.  She  saw  incredulous, 
questioning  recognition  flash  into  his  eyes,  but  no  more 
because  Carter's  great  body  came  between,  blotting 
each  from  the  other's  sight. 

So  he  was  lost  again  out  of  her  life  —  gone  like 
the  passing  of  music.  Another  flower  torn  up  by  the 
roots.  The  spot  where  his  hand  had  lain  was  al- 
ready cold.  Yet  a  minute  ago  and  he  was  there 
within  sound  and  touch  —  was  he  not  ?  That  present 
while  it  lasted  seemed  real  enough  —  surely  real 
enough  to  have  stayed  a  little  longer ;  it  could  not  have 
escaped  so  soon  —  slipped  with  the  cheap  moments  of 
every  day  back  into  the  ghost-ranks  of  the  past.  So 
soon  but  a  memory?  She  had  thought  she  could  tear 
it  out  of  time  and  so  keep  it  and  its  Julian  forever. 
But  reach  out  as  she  might,  the  place  where  he  had 
sat  was  empty.  O  the  madness  not  to  have  kissed 
his  hand  while  it  lay  close!  —  not  to  have  whispered 
his  name  when  they  were  alone  but  for  the  men  in 
the  far-away  gallery.  The  bitter  foolishness,  too  bit- 
ter to  be  wept  for ! 

She  did  not  remember  until  she  reached  home  that 
this  was  the  day  of  her  betrothal. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

INTERRUPTED 

It  was  half  past  five  in  the  afternoon,  two  weeks 
lacking  one  day  after  the  incident  of  the  Catholic 
church,  and  the  Lyndes'  dinner  was  in  danger  of  be- 
ing delayed  because  Mrs.  Lynde  had  gone  to  the  labor- 
atory to  meet  Poggy,  and  Zandrie  sat  alone  by  the 
kitchen  table,  staring  at  a  saucepan  in  which  the  po- 
tatoes were  boiling  all  to  pieces,  yet  seeing  nothing 
in  the  world  but  an  aisle  dim  as  with  moonlight,  that 
dissolved  now  and  again  into  a  shadowy  face.  With  a 
little  moan  at  last,  she  shut  her  eyes  in  order  to  see 
the  face  more  clearly,  but  with  the  movement  of  her 
eyelids  it  vanished  altogether.  Yet  the  saucepan  still 
hissed  with  vexation  and  hinted  in  vain;  for  she  was 
thinking  now  of  some  words  that  she  had  written  to 
Royce  on  that  night  of  the  church  episode  and  torn 
up  under  the  shock  of  the  realization  that  in  refus- 
ing to  marry  him  she  would  be  breaking  her  word. 
For  although  she  had  lied  often,  she  had  broken  a 
solemn  promise  never;  and  of  the  two  offenses  it 
seemed  probable  that  the  second  would  be  even  more 
hateful  to  Julian  than  the  first.  Ever  since  that  night, 
however,  the  temptation  had  come  clamoring,  and  for- 

294 


INTERRUPTED  295 

bidden  thoughts  that  she  had  believed  conquered,  had 
swarmed  back  to  the  warfare;  so  that  at  moments,  as 
now,  she  would  push  the  troubling  present  aside  and 
hold  out  a  reckless  hand  to  the  past,  inviting  memory 
to  do  its  worst.  But  even  without  her  will,  Royce's 
unhesitating  acceptance  of  the  gift  of  herself  as  his 
right,  and  her  struggle  not  to  shrink  from  his  caresses, 
-these  must  have  been  bound  up  with  comparisons 
tormenting  with  their  weight  of  forbidden  fruit. 
Memories  must  have  come  flocking,  perhaps,  even 
without  that  glimpse  of  Julian's  face.  In  spite  of  the 
distractions  of  Christmas,  she  had  had  a  bad  two 
weeks,  without  doubt. 

Yet  for  all  the  anguish  of  reawakened  passion;  for 
all  the  new  terror  of  binding  herself  to  another  than 
Julian;  and  for  all  the  scorn  of  herself  because  she 
could  crush  neither  the  passion  nor  the  fear,  she  had 
not  once  since  that  night  wanted  to  die:  for  the  first 
time  in  a  year  and  a  half,  she  wanted  passionately  to 
live.  For  what?  For  a  life  with  France?  Her 
word  was  pledged  to  him ;  yet  it  was  impossible  to  pic- 
ture her  future  self  as  France's  wife,  bound  forever 
to  live  with  him  in  peace,  grateful  for  his  love  though 
writhing  under  the  touch  of  his  lips ;  bound  to  perform 
housewifely  duties  faithfully,  though  knowing  that 
under  that  faithfulness  lay  the  love  of  another  and 
the  will  to  live  worthily  for  that  other's  sake.  So  it 
must  be,  said  reason;  for  her  word  was  given.  Yet 
imagination  balked  at  the  task  of  making  such  a  future 


296  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


look  real,  and  Hope  laughed  at  the  confusion  he  had 
wrought.  Poor  Hope !  —  stone  blind  himself  and 
gone  mad,  of  course. 

Alas  for  the  Lyndes'  potatoes!  Precisely  as  the 
saucepan  began  to  clatter  its  lid  in  a  last  frantic  ef- 
fort to  attract  attention,  the  door-bell  rang,  and  Zan- 
drie,  flinging  off  the  big  pink  apron  in  which  Dr. 
Royce  insisted  that  she  ought  to  receive  all  callers, 
went  to  the  door  and  opened  to  the  Wyndam  twins. 

"  But  Mrs.  Lynde  said  you  were  visiting  friends, 
this  vacation !  "  she  gasped.  "  Oh,  you  're  so  big  and 
tall !  —  taller  than  I !  How  dare  you !  " 

Lee  grinned  uncontrollably  upon  finding  that  the 
Lyndes  were  out.  "  Cousin  Ju "  had  made  them 
come,  he  explained  frankly;  "but  nobody  'd  think  of 
making  a  regular  call  on  you,  you  know." 

His  tactful  brother  groaned.  "  Would  n't  mind, 
of  course  he  means.  .  .  .  We  've  been  thinking 
up  things  to  talk  about  to  the  Lyndes.  Lee  wrote 
some  on  his  cuff." 

Lee  examined  his  work  with  pride.  "  Christmas 
presents,"  he  read.  "  School  to-morrow ;  Carter. 
.  .  .  Carter  's  gone  daown  east  to  visit  his  folks." 

Zandrie  laughed  at  the  reproduction  of  Carter's 
Maine  coast  drawl. 

"  He 's  been  practicing."  Marshalled  grinned. 
"  Cousin  Ju  says  '  raound  '  and  *  daown '  himself  — 
did  you  ever  notice  ?  —  only  not  through  his  nose  like 
Carter  —  because  he 's  a  Marylander.  .  .  . 


INTERRUPTED  297 

There  's  an  Irishman  taking  Carter's  place  —  lots  more 
fun  than  old  Cart." 

Lee  had  been  inspecting  the  apartment.  "  Stuffy 
little  hole,  is  n't  it,"  was  his  comment. 

"  Seems  all  right,  though,"  said  his  brother,  "  after 
Mrs.  Bright's.  I  say,  Miss  Alex !  —  that 's  the  bum- 
mest  boarding-house.  Cousin  Ju  would  n't  stand  it, 
I  guess,  if  he  had  to  see  those  people  shovel  in  their 
meals." 

"  Marsh  's  getting  stuck  up,"  said  Lee. 

"  I  'm  not,  Miss  Alex.  You  never  saw  such  people. 
There  's  a  Mrs.  Smith  comes  to  dinner  in  a  —  a  —  I 
don't  know  what  women  call  it,  but  it 's  a  sort  of 
pillow-case  with  Jap  sleeves  and  lots  of  lace,  and  she 
tries  to  pump  us  about  Cousin  Ju,  and  even  her  hus- 
band can't  stand  her.  And  I  don't  see  how  we  can 
stay  there  all  summer !  " 

"  'T  is  n't  decided  we  've  got  to." 

"  But  if  only  Cousin  Ju  'd  say  positively  that  we 
have  n't !  I  wish  Grandma  Wyndam  had  n't  died  this 
fall  —  we  had  such  jolly  good  summers  down  there  in 
Maine.  That  is  n't  the  only  reason,  of  course,"  he 
added  loyally. 

Zandrie  had  already  heard  from  the  Lyndes  of  the 
older  Mrs.  Wyndam's  death  and  wondered  what  Ju- 
lian would  do  with  his  wards. 

Marshall  did  his  best  to  enlighten  her.  "If  we 
are  n't  at  Mrs.  Bright's,  next  summer,  goodness  knows 
where  we  '11  be.  Uncle  John  Wyndam  's  nice  enough, 


298  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

but  he  's  got  too  many  kids  of  his  own  to  want  us  all 
summer.  I  bet  it  '11  end  in  Aunt  Marjorie's  having 
her  way.  She  wants  us  —  Cousin  Ju  and  us  —  to 
live  all  together  with  her  in  Maryland,  in  Grandpa 
Marshall's  house.  She  thinks  we  ought  to  have  a  reg- 
ular home  somewhere  —  though  seems  to  me  school 
does  well  enough." 

It  did  not  occur  to  Zandrie  to  ask  who  "  Aunt  Mar- 
jorie  "  might  be ;  the  possibility  of  Julian's  going  far 
off  to  live  startled  away  all  other  thought. 

"  We  should  n't  be  very  near  any  water  there," 
Marshall  was  complaining.  "  And  what 's  the  use  of 
that  knock-about  if  we  can't  sail  her?  And  besides, 
how  do  we  know  how  we'd  like  Aunt  Marjorie? 
Cousin  Ju  does  n't  seem  to  know  much  about  her  him- 
self, it 's  so  long  since  — " 

"  She  was  nice  to  us  at  the  time  Mother  died,"  Lee 
reminded. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  you  want  to  live  in  Maryland, 
and  be  done  with  it  ?  " 

"  'Cause  I  don't  happen  to  be  spoilin'  for  a  fight." 
Lee  smiled  wickedly  and  picked  up  a  book. 

Until  she  should  give  Royce  some  notion  of  when 
she  would  marry  him,  the  Lyndes  insisted  that  the 
engagement  must  not  be  announced.  It  had  occurred 
to  her  often  enough,  of  course,  that  if  Julian  knew,  he 
might  somehow  save  her  —  provided  that  he  loved  her 
still ;  might  somehow  understand  that  a  horrible  plexus 
of  circumstance  and  motive  had  twisted  her  will  into 


INTERRUPTED  299 

consent  to  a  loveless  marriage;  might  love  her  at  the 
last  too  well  to  let  her  go  certainly  and  forever.  It 
was  only  because  of  a  doubt  of  his  loving  her  still, 
that  she  had  not  told  him  of  the  engagement.  But 
now  the  doubt  was  overborne  by  the  temptation  of 
the  means  at  hand.  She  caught  her  breath,  glanced  at 
Lee,  who  had  thrown  aside  the  book  and  opened  a 
window,  and  drew  Marshall  nearer.  "  Tell  Julian," 
she  whispered,  "  but  no  one  else  in  the  world  —  not 
even  Lee  —  I  trust  you,  Marsh  dear  —  Tell  Julian 
I  'm  going  to  marry  —  to  marry  some  one  whom  I 
don't—" 

But  Lee's  excited  voice  rose  above  hers.  "  It  is  a 
fire,  and  a  jolly  big  one!  Quick,  Marsh!  Miss  Alex! 
—  O  look !  —  it  just  flared  up  like  thunder !  " 

Marsh  dashed  to  the  window.  The  opportunity  to 
finish  her  message  vanished  with  both  boys,  who 
caught  up  their  caps  and  fled. 

"  You  can  come  too,  Miss  Alex,"  Lee  managed  to 
articulate  on  his  wild  course  down  stairs,  "  if  you  can 
run!" 

She  stood  at  the  open  window,  unhearing,  scarcely 
seeing. 

It  was  after  seven  o'clock  at  last,  and  the  Lyndes 
had  not  returned.  Mrs.  Lynde  had  probably  per- 
suaded poor  Poggy  to  escort  her  to  the  fire,  which  was 
evidently  in  the  center  of  the  town  and  by  no  means 
small.  So,  when  half  past  seven  came,  and  yet  no 
Lyndes,  she  ate  her  dinner  (minus  potatoes)  alone, 


300  Z  A  N  D  R I  E 

amused  but  also  disgusted  by  her  adopted  aunt's  in- 
veterate childishness.  At  eight  she  began  to  work  on 
some  translations  of  French  poems  that  she  was  mak- 
ing, at  a  suggestion  of  one  of  her  friends,  for  a  new 
magazine.  She  had  already  received  the  lordly  sum 
of  twenty  dollars  for  two  translated  stories. 

No  sign  of  the  Lyndes  until  half  past  eight,  when 
Mrs.  Lynde  telephoned.  "  So  sorry  not  to  have 
thought  of  telephoning  sooner, —  but  such  an  excite- 
ment— !  We'll  be  home  soon  now  if  we  don't  die 
of  starvation  en  route.  Any  dinner  left?  .  .  . 
To  the  fire?  Why  of  course!  Thought  we  might 
find  you  there, —  though  the  crowd  was  so  thick  that 
Poggy  and  I  both  came  out  an  inch  taller.  .  .  . 
Don't  know  where  it  was  ?  Why  my  dear !  —  the 
printing  house  on  Center  street,  and  Mrs.  Bright's  too. 
Greatest  sight  you  ever  —  But  we  Ve  been  telephon- 
ing to  every  hotel  in  town  twice  over,  to  find  Julian. 
Can't  imagine  where  he 's  been  spirited  away  to. 
Seemed  only  friendly  to  look  after  him  if  we  could, 
but  he  's  given  us  the  slip.  Vanished  —  vanished  like 
smoke ! " 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

CONTAINING    PRIVATE    CORRESPONDENCE 

It  was  true  that  although  presumably  alive  and  un- 
scathed, he  was  by  no  means  to  be  found,  even  when 
the  Lyndes  renewed  their  inquiries  at  the  hotels  and 
sought  out  his  distracted  landlady,  whom  they  found 
searching  the  ruins  of  her  home  for  her  mother's  china 
teaset.  "Mr.  Furness?  .  .  .  He's  went,"  she 
sobbed.  "  They  've  all  went.  Everything 's  went." 
That  her  boarders  had  gone,  seemed  not  wholly  to 
their  discredit,  considering  that  the  house  was  roofless, 
floorless,  and  very  damp;  but  the  poor  woman  took 
their  departure  from  the  premises  as  a  desertion  and 
affront.  For  the  loss  of  the  teaset  she  was  inconsola- 
ble. The  house  was  insured, —  O  yes !  —  but  in- 
surance obviously  would  not  put  shattered  ancestral 
china  together.  She  thought  the  last  name  of  Mr. 
Carter's  substitute  was  Hogan,  but  did  not  know  his 
initials  or  address,  and  had  no  idea  where  he  had 
taken  his  employer.  She  considered  it  unbecoming 
of  Mr.  Furness  not  to  have  communicated  with  her. 

There  being  nine  Hogans  in  the  directory,  the 
Lyndes  did  not  follow  up  that  clue.  The  twins  had 
not  returned  to  them  that  evening,  and  as  Julian  had 

301 


302  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


not  written  to  inquire  about  them,  it  seemed  prob- 
able that  they  had  met  him,  spent  the  night  where  he 
had  —  doubtless  at  the  house  of  some  friend  —  and 
gone  back  to  school  the  next  morning.  Mrs.  Lynde 
wrote  to  them  but  had  not  extracted  an  answer.  Mean- 
while she  remembered  that  the  last  time  she  had  seen 
him,  he  had  said  he  might  take  his  doctor's  urgent 
advice  some  day  and  consult  a  Boston  surgeon  who  had 
treated  several  cases  of  spinal  injury  with  brilliant 
success ;  it  was  possible,  she  thought,  that  the  fire  had 
precipitated  his  decision.  "  Telephone  his  doctor 
here,"  Poggy  suggested;  but  the  doctor  himself  was 
in  Boston  at  a  G.  A.  R.  convention.  "  And  what 's 
the  use  of  all  this  detective  work  anyway?"  Mrs. 
Lynde  asked,  "  seeing  we  could  n't  offer  him  more 
than  standing-room,  and  our  little  Peggy's  suits  — 
supposing  his  own  went  up  in  smoke,  which  they  prob- 
ably did  n't  —  Poggy's  would  be  yards  too  short  ? 
What  should  we  say  to  him  if  we  found  him?  Really 
now,  I  wonder  what  it 's  all  been  for  —  this  chase  ?  " 

It  had  served  at  least  to  keep  Julian  well  in  mind. 

On  the  sixth  day  after  the  fire,  two  letters  came, 
which  Zandrie  opened  without  enthusiasm,  though  the 
first  held  a  check  for  ten  dollars  from  the  new  maga- 
zine that  had  already  accepted  two  of  her  transla- 
tions, and  the  other  was  from  her  fiance. 

"  Dear  little  girl,"  the  letter  began,  and  there  fol- 
lowed phrases  which  lovers  have  written  before  to 
their  absent  ladies  and  which  had  already  lost  their 


PRIVATE    CORRESPONDENCE   303 

novelty  for  Zandrie;  following  these,  the  news  that 
his  sister  Alice  was  to  be  married  in  Paris  in  June. 
Seeing  that  it  was  a  long  letter,  she  sat  down  on  the 
lowest  step  of  the  stairs  with  a  little  sigh.  The  sec- 
ond sheet  promised  more  interest,  however.  "  Did  I 
ever  tell  you  of  a  brilliant  fellow  I  once  heard  play 
the  organ  in  Paris?  You've  heard  of  Widor,  of 
course.  He  was  a  friend  of  Uncle  Louis's  —  Moth- 
er's French  brother-in-law  —  and  used  to  let  me  come 
up  to  his  organ-loft  to  see  him  make  his  feet  go.  Great 
sport !  Well,  one  day  as  I  was  passing  St.  Sulpice  and 
heard  the  organ  going  like  mad,  I  went  in.  '  Jove ! ' 
I  thought,  '  he  must  have  had  a  good  dinner ! '  It 
was  more  joyous  somehow  than  his  usual  playing. 
When  it  stopped,  I  started  up  to  the  gallery,  but  met 
a  fellow  of  about  my  age  on  the  stairs.  '  Monsieur 
Widor 's  still  up  there?'  I  asked  in  perfectly  good 
French.  '  Did  n't  notice  him,'  he  answered  in  Eng- 
lish —  for  which  alone  I  could  have  collared  him  of 
course.  'Wasn't  he  playing  just  now?'  I  asked  in- 
stead. '  Heaven  forbid ! '  said  he.  *  I  Ve  been  toot- 
ing up  there  these  last  two  hours.'  Well,  his  six  feet 
of  magnificent,  healthy  body  did  n't  fit  my  idea  of  a 
musical  prodigy,  and  I  swore  mildly  in  French.  '  Not 
such  a  sacre  bleu  fool  as  I  look,  you  mean  ? '  he 
called  back  with  a  smile  of  happy  insolence.  When  I 
asked  Widor  about  him,  he  said  he  could  do  anything 
he  wanted  with  an  organ  —  but  did  n't  always  want 
—  and  added  that  his  manners  were  '  tres  americaines. 


304  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


Mais  ce  ne  veut  rien  dire  —  il  est  plein  de  genie,' — • 
for  playing,  at  least,  but  I  believe  he  said  he  had  n't 
any  great  gift  for  composition.  I  did  n't  see  him 
again  except  once  —  at  the  Bal  Bullier,  where  he  was 
flirting  with  the  best-dressed  girl  in  sight;  and  his 
flirting  was  as  his  playing  —  masterly,  joyous,  and 
'plein  de  genie'.  Every  girl  in  the  room  had  at  least 
the  corner  of  her  eye  on  him, —  and  he  was  a  contrast 
to  their  Frenchmen.  I  was  standing  next  a  miserable 
little  Italian  artist,  I  remember,  who  shrugged  his 
shoulders  when  I  spoke  of  him,  and  called  him 
'  American-ne  devil.'  Somehow  the  mere  sight  of 
him  roused  my  envy,  and  I  've  always  pictured  his 
career  as  an  irresponsible  progress  through  whatever 
triumphs  happened  to  hit  his  fancy,  from  the  out-play- 
ing of  Widor,  to  the  cracking  of  what  lady's  heart 
he  chose.  Well,  this  morning  Ward  called  me  to 
help  at  the  examination  of  a  man  who  has  come  to  be 
operated  on  —  experimented  on,  I  'd  rather  say, 
though  Ward  is  confident  as  usual  —  and  at  first  sight 
I  knew  I  'd  seen  him  before.  Though  his  manner 
did  n't  invite  familiarity,  I  asked  him  who  and  what 
he  was,  and  *  a  proof  reader '  was  all  he  vouchsafed 
at  first."  Zandrie  caught  her  breath  and  read  on  now 
as  though  this  were  the  letter  of  a  lover  she  loved. 
" '  Maybe  so,'  said  I,  '  but  whatever  you  've  made 
yourself,  the  Lord  made  you  something  else.'  '  Only 
a  d — d  musician,'  says  he,  with  a  delightful  smile. 
And  then  I  recognized  him  as  my  Paris  man.  And 


PRIVATE    CORRESPONDENCE    305 

what  do  you  suppose  his  enviable  career  has  been? 
Just  after  I  saw  him,  he  was  crippled  for  life;  and  in 
a  day  or  two  I  'm  to  give  him  ether  for  an  operation 
that  at  best  can  probably  only  lessen  the  pain  he  has 
had  these  nine  years  that  I  've  been  envying  him.  A 
regular  Sunday-school  story,  you  see.  If  he  had  a 
little  Alex  to  love  him,  I  might  envy  him  still  — 
though  I  '11  make  you  love  me  to  distraction  yet  —  see 
if  I  don't!  I  hope  to  find  time  to  see  something  of 
my  genius  with  the  spoiled  life:  he  looks  interesting, 
and  he  has  pluck.  Whew !  I  tell  you,  dear,  if  a  doc- 
tor has  a  sense  of  the  dramatic  and  an  eye  for  color, 
his  life—" 

But  the  rest  had  no  bearing  on  Zandrie's  life. 

However  good  an  eye  Dr.  Royce  undoubtedly  had, 
it  had  failed  in  the  present  case  to  see  quite  all  the 
colors. 

The  man  must  be  Julian:  the  coincidences  shoved 
all  doubt  aside;  and  in  her  own  room,  with  the  door 
locked,  she  re-read,  feverishly,  greedily,  the  letter  that 
at  first  had  seemed  too  long. 

An  hour  later  she  was  on  her  way  down  stairs, 
dressed  for  going  out;  and  when  Mrs.  Lynde  asked 
where  she  was  going,  she  answered  "  to  the  Lawson 
farm,"  caring  not  at  all  that  it  was  a  lie.  First,  she 
cashed  her  check  at  the  bank  where  Poggy  had  de- 
posited for  her  the  twenty  dollars  already  earned  by 
her  translations,  though  she  had  begged  the  Lyndes 

to  accept  the  money  and  so  to  let  her  feel  that  she 
20 


306  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

was  helping.  Next  she  took  a  train  for  Boston. 
During  the  hour  in  her  room,  the  sickness  of  excite- 
ment that  had  confused  her  thought  since  the  inci- 
dent of  the  Catholic  church  and  yet  more  during  the 
week  since  the  fire,  passed,  leaving  reason  to  travel 
smoothly  to  its  ends.  And  first,  reason  saw  that  her 
hope  now  lay  in  Julian's  knowing  all.  If  he  knew 
that  for  all  her  fight  to  forget,  the  past  was  meeting 
her,  lasso  in  hand,  at  every  turn;  if  he  knew  that  there 
was  a  thwarting  spirit  on  her  track,  forever  snaring 
her  with  fatal  reminders;  if  he  knew  that  she  loved 
him  invincibly  still,  and  that  because  of  that  very 
love,  and  to  prove  herself  worthy,  she  had  bound  her- 
self to  another  man — "Oh,  but  I  was  mad!"  she 
moaned  —  if  he  knew  and  if  he  loved  her  still,  he 
would  take  her  back  and  save  her.  And  perhaps  if 
France  too  knew  all,  he  would  release  her  of  his  own 
accord  from  her  promise ;  or  if  not, —  no  matter !  She 
would  break  it  herself,  if  need  be,  and  compel  Julian  to 
understand  the  need.  France  knew  that  she  loved 
some  one  else  than  himself, —  but  no  more,  she 
thought.  It  had  never  seemed  strange  that  he  asked 
no  questions.  He  seemed  as  confident  that  her  love 
would  meet  his  at  last,  as  though  he  had  forgotten 
what  she  had  told  him  —  that  there  was  an  Other 
One  whom  she  loved  though  she  could  not  have  him. 
.  .  .  Curious, —  that  Julian's  renunciation  should 
ever  have  seemed  so  final!  .  .  .  Even  if  France 
had  discovered  lately  that  Julian  and  she  had  known 


PRIVATE    CORRESPONDENCE    307 

each  other,  could  he  guess  that  Julian  was  that  Other 
One?  If  he  had  guessed,  and  if  he  loved  her  as  — 
well,  as  Julian  had  loved  her  —  would  he  not  have 
spoken?  —  have  asked  if  he  could  help  her?  But  she 
believed  he  could  not  have  guessed.  Nor  could  Julian 
possibly  know  that  she  was  engaged,  unless  Marshall 
had  given  her  message, —  which  was  unlikely,  consid- 
ering the  excitement  of  the  fire.  The  boy  had  hardly 
heard  the  message  himself. 

So  she  was  going  to  Boston  to  tell  the  truth  to 
each;  and  going  secretly  lest  Mrs.  Lynde  should  in- 
sist upon  going  with  her,  and  make  delay.  And  de- 
lay might  bring  confusion  of  thought  once  more,  and 
the  distortion  of  vision  that  had  made  it  seem  neces- 
sary to  marry  France.  Besides,  she  knew  nothing 
about  Julian's  plans:  he  might  be  going  to  Maryland 
in  a  day  or  two, —  for  all  she  knew  of  operations. 

Dr.  Ward's  private  hospital  was  part  of  a  prosperous 
block  near  Back  Bay  station.  The  liveried  person  who 
opened  the  door,  left  her  in  a  reception  room  while 
he  went  to  ask  whether  Mr.  Furness  could  receive  vis- 
itors. She  smiled  at  the  memory  of  another  visit  to 
a  hospital,  and  its  precious  absurdities.  To-day  there 
would  be  no  Mrs.  Deming,  at  least !  But  although  that 
episode  was  so  long  ago  —  fifty  years  at  the  lowest 
—  and  so  very  absurd,  her  eyes  filled.  And  when  she 
brushed  away  the  tears,  she  saw  that  some  one  was 
watching  her  from  the  doorway. 

It  was  a  lady  in  black,  with  a  widow's  veil,  from 


308  ZANDRIE 


under  which  her  blue  eyes  regarded  Zandrie  very 
searchingly.  "You  wanted  to  see  my  son?"  she 
asked  at  last,  moving  forward  but  watching  Zandrie 
still.  She  stepped  with  exquisitely  supple  grace. 

"Your  son?     ...     No."  , 

"  Mr.  Furness  ?  It  was  you  who  asked  to  see  Mr. 
Furness,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

A  little  flush  stole  to  the  lady's  face,  but  her  eyes 
still  met  Zandrie's.  "  He  is  my  son.  I  am  Mrs. 
Roswell." 

"  He  has  no  mother,"  Zandrie  said  at  last.  "  His 
father  and  mother  are  dead, —  like  mine."  Though 
she  stared  at  the  woman  who  called  herself  Julian's 
mother,  she  saw  instead  Julian's  young  face  on  Father 
Haggarty's  pillow,  the  forehead  puckered  with  little 
lines  of  pain  as  she  asked  "  And  are  your  father  and 
mother  dead  too  ?  "  and  he  answered  almost  sullenly, 
"  Yes  —  both."  Yet  it  was  not  wholly  a  hullucina- 
tion,  for  the  eyes  into  which  her  own  were  actually 
looking,  were  so  like  Julian's,  that  —  She  sank  back 
into  the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen. 

Mrs.  Roswell  smiled.  "  You  're  surprised  ?  But 
it 's  really  not  so  strange  after  all.  Several  of  his 
acquaintances  don't  know  of  his  mother,  perhaps, — of 
his  having  a  mother  alive ;  for  you  see,  I  married  again 
when  he  was  so  very  young,  and  have  lived  all  over  the 
world  ever  since,  the  way  we  poor  wives  of  navy 
officers  have  to.  We  Ve  actually  hardly  known  each 


PRIVATE    CORRESPONDENCE   309 

other  till  lately  —  Sonnie  and  I.  He  telegraphed  me 
of  his  sudden  decision  to  have  this  operation,  and  I 
arrived  here  from  St.  Louis  last  night.  But  I  '11  never 
leave  him  again, —  shall  never  have  to,  as  my  poor 
husband  —  My  dear  child,  you  're  ill !  " 

The  lady's  voice  seemed  to  come  from  far  away, 
borne  on  the  sound  of  rushing  waters  that  Zandrie 
could  not  see  because  of  a  sudden  darkness.  But  she 
felt  a  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  the  light  returned 
so  that  she  saw  Julian's  —  no,  the  lady's  eyes,  once 
more:  and  there  was  no  kindness  in  them,  in  spite  of 
the  kindly  attitude  and  the  kindly,  musical  voice. 
"I  '11  send  for  one  of  the  nurses.  You  're  faint." 

"  No,"  and  Zandrie  sat  up  bravely.  "  I  only  want 
to  see  —  Julian.  Then  —  it  will  all  be  right.  He  '11 
tell  me  the  truth,  and  —  " 

"  You  can't  see  him  now.  I  'm  sorry,  but  even  his 
mother  can't  see  him  now.  He  's  barely  out  of  the 
ether." 

"He  has  had  the  operation?" 

"  Early  this  morning,  and  —  " 

"  It 's  all  over  ?  Then  I  can  see  him  —  and  I  must. 
Dr.  Royce !  "  —  she  started  towards  the  door  —  "I 
must  see  Dr.  Royce !  He  '11  let  me  see  Julian." 

The  liveried  person  was  entering  the  room.  Dr. 
Royce  had  left  the  hospital  an  hour  ago,  he  said :  would 
she  leave  a  message? 

Was  it  true  that  no  one  could  see  Mr.  Furness  ?  she 
asked. 


310  ZANDRIE 


Quite  impossible  to-day,  he  told  her. 

The  disappointment  was  exquisite  .  .  .  And 
yet,  had  she  really  believed  that  she  should  see  and 
speak  with  him  to-day?  The  idea  of  life  without  him 
had  taken  such  root  after  all,  that  she  could  not  tear 
it  out  all  at  once. 

Mrs.  Roswell  stood  at  the  window  —  a  silhouette 
whose  every  curve  held  grace.  Even  at  fifty,  Mar- 
jorie  Marshall  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women 
that  Zandrie  had  seen.  The  poor  child  went  to  her  at 
last  and  took  her  hands.  "  I  believe  you  are  his 
mother,  though  he  never  spoke  of  you  —  except  once, 
years  ago,  when  he  said  —  yes,  he  said  you  were  dead. 
Perhaps  I  shall  understand  some  day. " 

Mrs.  Roswell  smiled.  "  It  must  have  been  when 
I  was  in  Hawaii,  and  there  was  a  report  of  Captain 
Roswell's  death  —  and  mine.  Will  you  tell  me  who 
you  are  ?  " 

"  I  am  —  Zandrie." 

"  Zandrie  .  .  .  It 's  an  odd,  sweet  name,  but 
I  have  to  admit  it 's  new  to  me." 

"He  never—?" 

"  No,  Zandrie, —  he  never  spoke  of  you.  Do  par- 
don me !  —  but  since  you  would  ask  me  —  And  he 
told  me  a  great  deal,  last  night ;  but  .  .  .  We  're 
going  to  be  very  happy  together,  I  think, —  Sonnie  and 
I.  He  has  needed  me  for  so  long !  —  so  long !  But 
I  've  come  back  to  him  to  stay,  at  last  .  .  .  Will 
you  leave  any  message  ?  " 


PRIVATE    CORRESPONDENCE    311 

There   was   a  desk   in  the   room,   for  the   use   of 
visitors.     Zandrie  wrote  her  message. 

"  JULIAN  : 

"  I  had  to  come :  don't  be  displeased.  I  will  never  come 
again  if  you  tell  me  not  to.  I  am  engaged  to  a  man  I  don't 
love.  You  see,  I  can't  live  with  the  Lyndes  any  more  be- 
cause they  are  very  poor  now  and  yet  won't  let  me  help  them 
with  my  own  money  that  I  have  earned;  and  besides,  they 
don't  love  me  any  more,  all  through  my  own  fault ;  and  this 
man  —  I  '11  tell  you  his  name  if  ever  I  see  you  again  — 
wanted  me  so  much  that  at  last  I  promised  to  marry  him, 
because  it  seemed  my  duty.  I  think  now  that  I  was  insane; 
yet  I  shall  keep  my  promise,  of  course,  unless  you  love  me 
still.  I  have  often  doubted  lately  that  you  loved  me  still. 
It  seemed  as  though,  if  you  did,  you  must  somehow  know  my 
trouble  and  speak  to  me  —  that  night  in  the  church,  for 
instance.  That  is  a  foolish  idea,  perhaps.  But  at  any  rate, 
some  people  can  stop  loving  in  a  year  and  a  half, —  even 
good,  noble  people;  and  if  you  are  one  of  them,  I  shall  never 
blame  you  in  my  inmost  thought. 

"  Julian  ! —  I  thought  I  knew  you,  but  of  a  sudden  I  doubt 
that  too.  Why  did  you  never  tell  me  you  had  a  mother? 
I  am  all  confused.  But  this  I  know :  either  that  you  will 
write  to  me,  and  all  will  be  well  forever  after;  or  that  you 
don't  love  me,  and  I  shall  marry  the  other  man  and  never 
see  you  again,  nor  you,  me.  God  knows  which, —  you  and 
God.  If  you  don't  love  me,  you  will  not  write,  and  so  I 
shall  know.  You  could  never  do  me  the  bitter  wrong  to 
pretend  to  love  me.  And  so,  if  you  don't  write,  I  shall 
understand  and  never  trouble  you  again.  But  if  you  do 
happen  to  love  me  still,  my  knowing  it  will  do  no  harm  at 
least,  will  it?  Oh,  if  you  do,  you  must  tell  me !  I  am  quite 
grown  up  now.  «  ZANDRIE." 


3i2  ZANDRIE 


She  gave  the  folded  sheets  to  Julian's  mother. 

"  You  came  from  out  of  town  to  see  my  dear  boy?  " 
Mrs.  Roswell  asked;  and  again  there  was  no  kindness 
in  her  eyes,  though  she  smiled.  "  He  '11  be  so  sorry, 
I  'm  sure.  Perhaps  you  '11  come  again  ?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Or  visit  us  in  Maryland  ?  That  would  be  delight- 
ful. We  're  going  there  as  soon  as  he  is  able,  and  we 
southerners  keep  open  house,  you  know."  Her  smile 
of  invitation  and  dismissal  was  wholly  exquisite. 
Zandrie  caught  her  out-stretched  hand  up  to  her  lips. 

As  she  had  written  to  Julian,  she  was  confused. 
Her  first  thought,  after  leaving  the  hospital,  was  to 
find  France  and  tell  him  what  she  had  planned  to  tell. 
But  even  supposing  that  she  could  find  him,  would 
it  not  be  better  to  wait  until  hearing  from  Julian 
if  indeed  he  should  write?  For,  if  he  did 
not  answer  her  note,  there  would  be  nothing  left  for 
her  but  to  marry  France  and  try  to  make  him  happy ; 
and  he  would  be  none  the  happier  for  knowing  all. 
She  shivered  a  little  .  .  .  and  decided  to  wait. 

Upon  reaching  the  Lyndes'  at  four  o'clock,  she 
found  them  worried  and  puzzled,  for  Royce  had  come 
at  noon,  had  gone  to  the  Lawsons'  for  her  and  learned 
that  she  had  not  been  there ;  then  had  telephoned  to  all 
her  other  friends  in  the  hope  of  finding  her.  Her 
train  must  have  passed  his  on  her  way  home. 

When  she  had  to  acknowledge  that  she  had  told  a 


PRIVATE    CORRESPONDENCE    313 

lie,  and  refused  to  explain,  even  Poggy  was  hurt  to  the 
verge  of  anger. 

During  her  absence,  as  she  learned  that  evening,  a 
letter  had  come  from  Marshall  Wyndam  telling  of 
Julian's  where-abouts  and  how  the  three  of  them  had 
spent  the  night  of*  the  fire  at  the  house  of  his 
friend,  the  organist  of  the  Catholic  church.  "  Old 
lady  Bright's  house  was  beginning  to  go  up  in  smoke 
when  we  got  there  and  the  policemen  did  n't  want  to  let 
us  through  the  line,  but  we  told  them  it  was  our  board- 
ing house,  but  we  did  n't  have  a  chance  to  rescue 
Cousin  Ju  because  the  Irishman  had  done  it  already 
and  we  met  them  outside  near  the  ropes  talking  with 
Cousin  Ju's  friend,  and  he  made  us  all  pile  into  his 
house  where  he  lives  with  his  brother  and  mother,  quite 
a  nice  old  lady,  for  the  night.  Cousin  Ju  saved  some 
papers  and  Mother's  miniature  but  not  many  other 
articles  and  we  all  had  to  get  some  new  clothes,  but 
never  mind,  it  was  a  great  old  lark." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

SHORT   BECAUSE    HURRIED 

If  ever  a  poor  soul  had  reason  for  feeling  dis- 
couraged, Mrs.  Lynde  insisted,  or  excuse  for  breaking 
his  engagement  —  if  he  wanted  to  break  it,  and  she 
really  did  n't  see  why  he  should  n't  want  to,  at  this 
rate  —  Dr.  Royce  was  the  soul.  Zandrie  had  been 
outrageously  capricious,  not  to  say  absolutely  cruel,  of 
late. 

And  Zandrie  assented. 

"Yet  I  do  believe  you're  fond  of  him.  If  not  — 
But  he 's  so  nice !  Alex,  what  is  the 

matter?" 

At  least  half  the  matter  —  though  she  did  not  ex- 
plain to  Mrs.  Lynde  —  was  that  Julian  had  not  an- 
swered her  note.  And  it  was  now  four  months  since 
her  trip  to  Boston. 

Two  months  and  a  half  after  that,  he  had  written 
to  the  Lyndes,  apologizing  for  not  having  thanked 
them  sooner  for  the  kindly  interest  they  had  taken  in 
his  welfare  at  the  time  of  the  fire,  and  explaining  how 
he  and  the  twins  had  spent  the  night  with  his  friend; 
also,  how  the  destruction  of  his  quarters  combined 

314 


SHORT    BECAUSE    HURRIED      315 

with  his  decision  to  live  with  his  mother,  had  made  it 
seem  best  to  go  to  Boston  at  once  for  the  operation  — 
which  was  proving  successful,  he  said.  "  The  wicked 
old  pain  is  almost  gone  and  I  'm  learning  to  walk  three 
steps  on  crutches.  I  could  have  done  it  years  ago,  but 
for  the  pain.  Don't  I  feel  right  capable !  "  He  and 
his  mother  were  planning  to  move  to  the  old  Marshall 
house  in  Maryland,  in  a  month  or  two.  And  then  he 
ended  the  letter  with  "  regards  to  Zandrie." 

Her  despair,  leagued  perhaps  with  wounded  pride, 
held  her  from  asking  the  Lyndes  anything  about  his 
mother,  and  their  few  comments  on  his  plan  to  live 
with  her  threw  little  light  on  the  history  of  Marjorie 
Marshall. 

Five  weeks  later  there  was  another  letter,  from 
Maryland  and  quite  short,  ending  with  "  Dr.  Royce 
tells  me  he  is  engaged  to  Zandrie.  Please  congratu- 
late her  for  me." 

"  But  why  in  the  world  should  France  have  told 
him  ?  "  Mrs.  Lynde  asked.  "  He  was  n't  to  tell  a 
soul  but  his  family  and  Dr.  Ward." 

But  Zandrie  offered  no  reason;  and  if  France  ex- 
plained, it  was  not  in  his  fiancee's  presence.  His 
having  told,  of  course  argued  some  intimacy  with 
Julian;  yet,  though  her  eyes  questioned  him  at  times 
writh  an  almost  angry  envy  that  he  might  and  perhaps 
did  see  Julian  daily,  she  asked  nothing  in  words.  And 
Royce  himself  had  not  mentioned  him  since  the  letter 
about  him,  except  briefly  in  another,  in  which  he  had 


316  ZANDRIE 


written  "  by  the  way,"  that  the  man  whom  he  had 
heard  play  in  Paris  turned  out  to  be  a  certain  Furness, 
who  came  from  her  town  and  knew  herself  and  the 
Lyndes.  But  that  was  all  he  said.  And  it  did  not 
seem  strange  to  her  that  it  was  all. 

Mrs.  Lynde,  meanwhile,  continued  to  take  her  to 
task.  "  France  thinks  you  are  ill.  But  . 
My  dear,  if  you  would  only  tell  things !  —  only  take 
your  friends  into  your  confidence!  But  you  never 
have.  Of  course  if  you  don't  care  to  ... 
Don't  you  ever  tell  things  even  to  France  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  would,"  said  Zandrie,  "  —  if  he  ever 
asked  questions." 

Mrs.  Lynde  asked  no  more,  perhaps  because  Royce's 
step  was  on  the  stairs.  It  was  early  in  May,  and  so 
warm  that  the  front  door  had  been  left  open.  He  had 
telegraphed  that  he  was  coming  "  with  some  news," 

Zandrie  was  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  before  he,  and 
took  his  face  between  her  hands.  "  You  're  pale,"  she 
said. 

"  I  've  been  working  rather  extra  hard." 

"  Yet  I  still  believe  that  if  I  loved  you,  you  'd  stop 
loving  me ! " 

"  Try  it  and  see." 

She  kissed  his  forehead  gravely.  "Never ! "  But 
it  was  the  first  kiss  she  had  given  him  of  her  own 
accord. 

"  You  shall !  "  He  caught  her  in  his  arms ;  and  at 
first  she  neither  answered  nor  resisted.  But  when 


SHORT    BECAUSE   HURRIED       317 

his  clasp  began  to  relax,  "  No, —  hold  me,"  she  whisp- 
ered, "I'm  safer  so, —  safe  from  the  dream.  The 
strength  of  your  arms  is  good."  Then,  "  Take  me  out 
with  you,"  she  said.  "  Have  you  time?  " 

"  Time  ?  —  when  you  want  me  a  little  ?  "  He 
laughed  happily.  "  I  'd  break  an  engagement  with 
the  archangel  Mike,  if  you  asked  me  to  stay." 

"  That  sounds  like  naughty  me,"  she  said.  "  Don't 
grow  like  me,  France.  It's  awful  to  be  me." 

"  What  did  you  mean  by  '  the  dream  '  ?  "  he  asked 
very  gravely,  when  they  had  been  walking  a  few 
minutes. 

"  Ah !  "  and  she  shivered.  "  The  dream  of  dark 
water  into  which  I  'm  falling.  It  comes  so  often  now, 
and  the  ghost  of  it  haunts  me  through  the  day  —  some 
clays.  I  can't  explain  —  but  of  a  sudden  I  see  it  — • 
a  dark,  still  pool  —  somewhere  down  below  me. 
.  Oh !  —  and  I  gasp  and  catch  at  something 
to  keep  from  falling,  and  there  's  nothing  to  catch ; 
and  then  the  pool  itself  is  gone  —  everything  gone  but 
the  terror." 

He  took  her  hand.     "  Dear, —  you  must  n't !  " 

"  I  know  it ;  it 's  morbid  of  me.  But  I  can't  seem  to 
fight  it,  even,  any  more." 

He  let  go  her  hand.  After  a  pause,  "  It  isn't  the 
Lyndes?  —  the  trouble,  I  mean,  that  brings  bad 
dreams?  It  isn't  the  absurd  idea  the  Lyndes  don't 
love  you?  " 

"Mrs.  Lynde  doesn't  love  me;  and  Poggy  doesn't 


3i8  ZANDRIE 


"  —  she  was  going  to  say  "does  n't  dare."  But  she 
said  instead,  "  I  almost  think  nobody  truly  loves  me  — 
not  even  you." 

"And  that 's  the  trouble  ?  "  He  asked  it  as  though 
he  were  thinking  of  something  else;  thinking  very 
hard.  "  As  though  he  were  in  a  feud  with  himself," 
Zandrie  thought.  And  then  she  remembered  that  she 
had  said  that  of  Julian. 

As  in  the  case  of  Julian  and  herself,  the  man's 
spiritual  conflict  —  whatever  it 's  cause  —  broke  the 
wires  of  understanding  between  them.  A  minute  ago 
and  the  impulse  to  confide  her  trouble  had  been  urgent. 
It  had  seemed  as  though  it  would  be  a  relief  to  tell; 
and  what  harm  to  France,  who  knew  already  that  she 
loved  another  better  than  him?  —  unless  he  had  for- 
gotten. She  sometimes  believed  he  had.  What  harm 
to  remind  him,  though  ?  Better  so !  But  the  impulse 
to  tell  him  that  the  man  she  loved  was  his  own  friend 
Julian,  who  no  longer  loved  her  —  the  mood  that  had 
made  the  confidence  seem  easy,  was  now  destroyed  by 
France  himself, —  how  or  why,  she  could  not  say. 

They  walked  in  silence  till  he  drew  a  letter  from  his 
pocket  and  gave  it  her  to  read.  It  was  from  his 
mother,  telling  that  for  a  complication  of  reasons,  his 
sister  Alice  was  to  be  married  on  May  twelfth  instead 
of  in  June,  and  urging  him  to  come  to  the  wedding. 
If  he  sailed  at  once,  he  would  be  in  time.  Alice  her- 
self had  added  a  sweet,  importunate  postscript. 

"  Are  you  going  ?  "  Zandrie  asked. 


SHORT    BECAUSE   HURRIED       319 

He  was  watching  her.  "  I  came  this  morning  to 
say  good-by.  I  got  the  letter  five  days  ago,  but  I 
did  n't  engage  passage  till  yesterday.  I  'm  going  to 
sail  from  Boston  this  afternoon  at  five.  I  Ve  cabled 
Mother  to  expect  me." 

"  To  be  gone  how  long?  " 

"  Six  weeks,  I  think." 

She  felt  the  blood  leave  her  lips.  Suddenly  she 
caught  his  arm.  "  France !  " 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  go  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid!  Oh,  you  mustn't  leave  me!  It 
would  n't  be  right." 

He  seized  both  her  hands.     "  You  don't  mean  —  " 

"No,  no !  I  don't  love  you,  France !  But  —  don't 
leave  me.  Something  will  happen  if  you  leave  me 
alone  —  if  you  go  so  far!  O  France !  " 

"Come  with  me!  Why  not!  Why  not  marry  me 
—  to-day?  Alex!  I  had  n't  dreamed  of  that!  But 
why  not  ?  " 

"  O  no  i  O  no ! "  She  shrank  back  from  him. 
"  Why  did  you  think  of  going  so  far?  " 

"  Alex,  are  you  going  to  marry  me  ever  ?  You 
must  say.  It 's  only  fair." 

"  Perhaps.  I  don't  know.  But  you  must  n't  go." 
She  leaned  against  a  fence  and  covered  her  face. 

After  a  pause  he  bent  over  her.  His  voice  shook. 
"  I  believe  it 's  now  or  never.  Come  with  me,  dear. 
You  '11  be  happier  —  away  from  the  Lyndes.  I  Ve 
got  to  go,  this  very  afternoon.  I  was  going  back  to 


320  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


Boston  in  half  an  hour,  but  there  's  a  later  train  — 
twelve :  twenty-five.  It  could  be  done  before  then,  I 
think.  Our  marriage,  I  mean."  He  was  so  near  that 
she  heard  his  trembling.  "  Beloved !  Try  it !  You  '11 
be  happier  —  even  with  me.  Try  it.  You  were  going 
to  marry  me  any  way.  .  .  .  It 's  a  double  state- 
room —  the  only  one  I  could  get.  I  'm  not  super- 
stitious, but  —  it 's  all  quite  possible,  you  see.  Come 
away,  dear,  from  bad  dreams  —  from  all  this  miser- 
able life!" 

"  But  you  're  not  going  —  not  really,  France !  " 
"  I  'm  going  this  afternoon  at  five.     And  you  're 
coming  with  me." 

"  No,"  she  whispered.  "  But  if  I  don't  —  But  if 
I  don't  —  " 

Suddenly  she  caught  his  coat  with  her  left  hand, 
covering  her  eyes  with  the  other.  "  Take  me  away 
with  you  —  somewhere  —  O  yes,  way  off !  —  to  Paris, 
I  mean.  Something  will  happen  if  you  leave  me  all 
alone." 

"  You  mean  you  '11  marry  me  ?  " 
"  Yes  —  yes     .      .      .     take  me  with  you." 
Although  three  persons  were  passing,  Royce  caught 
her  in  his  arms,  laughing  softly.     "  We  've  just  two 
hours  to  get  married  in !  " 

They  turned  to  go  back  to  the  Lyndes'.  Zandrie 
was  walking  very  fast.  "  Why  were  you  going  to 
leave  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  thought  it  might  be  better.     I  could  n't  decide, 


SHORT    BECAUSE    HURRIED      321 

at  first;  but  I  thought  if  I  went  for  a  while     . 
I  had  n't  much  hope,  but  —  " 

"You  thought  it  might  help  me  to  know  whether  I 
really  could  live  without  you.  Well, —  I  could  n't, 
it  seems.  But  perhaps  I  can't  live  with  you  either." 

"  Thank  God,  you  're  willing  to  try." 

"  You  're  the  only  one,  you  see,  who  loves  me  at  all. 
And  I  ...  When  one  has  no  father  nor 
mother,  one  dies  without  love." 

It  was  half  past  ten  and  beginning  to  rain,  when  they 
reached  the  house.  The  Lyndes  were  out.  After 
some  sternly  practical  discussion  concerning  clothes 
and  the  necessity  of  buying  a  steamer-rug  in  Boston, 
France  left  his  intended  bride  to  pack  a  small  trunk, 
while  he  rushed  forth  in  search  of  Poggy,  Mrs.  Lynde, 
a  clergyman,  a  license,  and  a  ring.  With  the  possible 
exception  of  the  license,  Mrs.  Lynde  was  the  least 
easily  procured;  but  by  dint  of  much  telephoning  and 
the  exercise  of  a  wit  worthy  of  Sherlock  Holmes, 
Poggy  tracked  her  to  a  milliner's  and  ran  her  to  cover 
on  the  steps  of  that  establishment.  When  they 
reached  home,  it  was  ten  minutes  to  twelve,  and  the 
minister  already  there. 

The  Doctor  and  his  bride  caught  the  twelve :  twenty- 
five  train  by  precisely  three  quarters  of  a  minute. 


21 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IN  THE  HOUR  OF  NEED 

If  the  elderly  couple  in  the  dining  car,  who  had 
nudged  each  other  behind  the  backs  of  a  younger 
couple,  could  have  seen  the  bride  an  hour  later,  they 
might  well  have  looked  as  puzzled  as  the  bridegroom. 
He  looked  not  only  bewildered,  but  dismayed.  For 
the  bride  lay  huddled  almost  as  far  from  him  as  space 
allowed  in  the  carriage  that  was  taking  them  from  the 
Boston  depot  to  the  wharf.  Her  hands  lay  in  her  lap 
nerveless,  and  so  cold  that  anxiety  began  to  sharpen 
the  lines  of  perplexity  on  her  husband's  forehead.  He 
had  laid  one  of  his  hands  on  hers,  till  she  had  drawn 
hers  away.  "  I  think  I  understand,  dear,"  he  said  at 
last.  "  But  you  know  what  I  —  what  we  —  " 

She  shrank  yet  farther  from  him.  "  I  know  you  're 
kind." 

When  he  next  spoke,  the  cheerfulness  of  his  voice 
was  purely  professional.  "  The  rain  can't  last  much 
longer.  It  '11  use  itself  all  up  at  this  rate." 

But  she  did  not  hear,  because  her  mind  was  busy 
with  other  words,  spoken  between  them  on  the  train. 
She  was  trying  to  recall  them  calmly, —  exactly. 

322 


IN    THE    HOUR   OF    NEED       323 

"  We  've  promised  to  live  together," —  those  were 
some  of  her  own  —  "  but  why  do  married  people  have 
to  make  such  a  promise  ?  It 's  only  when  men  and 
women  agree  to  live  together,  that  they  promise  so; 
is  n't  it?  And  why?  I  never  could  see."  And  as  he 
was  silent,  she  had  repeated  very  earnestly,  "  Why  ? 
Other  friends  don't  promise  so."  And  then  he  had 
turned  to  her  with  such  a  startled  question  in  his  eyes, 
that  she  leaped  to  a  strange,  frightened  suspicion. 
"  There  's  something  I  don't  understand !  "  And  at 
last  he  had  said  "  Dear  child !  Dear  child !  "  —  as 
though  appalled  and  full  of  compassion.  Five  min- 
utes later,  panic  had  fallen  upon  her. 

He  was  bent  upon  diverting  her  now,  on  their  way 
to  the  wharf ;  but  it  was  not  till  his  third  attempt,  that 
she  heard  his  words.  "  Think  of  everybody's  sur- 
prise! The  family  and  Dr.  Ward  are  the  only  ones 
who  knew  of  so  much  as  our  engagement.  That  is 
.  .  .  "  He  flushed.  Then  he  sat  a  little 
straighter.  "  Yes, —  who  knew  even  of  our  engage- 
ment. When  the  wedding 's  announced,  there  '11 
be  —  " 

Zandrie  had  clasped  her  hands  tensely.  "  You  told 
some  one  else.  Whatever  you  do,  France,  don't  lie  to 
me,  ever." 

"Oh  .  .  .  well, —  one  or  two  friends,  per- 
haps ...  I  mean  —  yes,  just  recently.  I 
knew  I  could  depend  on  their  —  " 

"Who  was  it?" 


324  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


Something  in  her  tone  perhaps  broke  through  his 
guard  of  feigned  carelessness,  for  he  did  not  speak 
again  until  she  had  repeated  the  question. 

The  stony,  monotonous  rattle  of  the  cab  ceased  sud- 
denly because  of  a  block  of  vehicles  ahead,  and  the 
manifold  roar  of  the  city  surged  into  its  place.  It  was 
like  a  change  of  mood  from  common-place  to  earnestly 
significant. 

"  The  man  I  wrote  you  about,  then,"  he  answered  at 
last.  "You  .  .  .  knew  it?" 

"  Tell  me  everything,"  Zandrie  said  in  a  voice  that 
was  slightly  hoarse. 

"I     ...     had  n't  meant  to  speak  of  him." 

"  I  know  it.     Now  it  will  be  better  to,  you  see." 

He  was  pale,  and  worked  at  the  window  strap. 
"  Perhaps  it  will  .  .  .  Mrs.  Lynde  once  told  me 
about  your  leaving  the  convent  and  coming  north  to 
find  a  friend  —  a  man  who  had  been  taken  care  of  at 
the  convent  —  a  friend  of  the  Lyndes,  through  whom 
they  knew  you.  She  told  me  his  name.  And  she 
told  me  you  had  quarreled  and  seen  nothing  of  him 
for  some  time  .  .  .  That  was  all  she  told  me. 
But  I  suspected  —  couldn't  help  it  —  that  he  — 
this  friend  —  might  .  .  .  might  be  the  one 
whom 

But  she  gave  him  no  help. 

"  I  did  n't  know,  of  course,"  he  went  on.  "  I  don't 
know  now;  though  I  ...  Well,  I  wanted  to 
know  from  no  one  but  yourself.  And  then  he  — 


IN    THE    HOUR    OF    NEED       325 

Furness  —  came  to  the  hospital ;  and  when  I  heard  his 
name  and  where  he  'd  been  living,  and  that  he  came 
originally  from  Maryland  —  then  I  was  sure  he  was 
the  friend,  at  least.  He  did  n't  invite  familiarity,  as 
I  wrote  —  " 

"  You  wrote  that  letter,  knowing  —  " 

"  No !  I  had  n't  caught  his  name  when  Ward  in- 
troduced him :  thought  it  was  Ferns.  I  did  n't  get  it 
right  or  learn  anything  about  him  till  after  I  'd  mailed 
the  letter  next  morning.  I  'd  long  since  forgotten  the 
name  of  the  man  I  'd  heard  play  in  Paris  —  if  I  ever 
knew  it." 

"  Go  on." 

"Well  ...  I  told  him  I  thought  he  knew 
the  Lyndes  and  —  you ;  and  he  said  '  yes '  and  that 
he  had  n't  seen  Miss  Lynde  —  he  started  to  say  *  Miss 
Donallon  '  —  for  some  time ;  and  then  changed  the 
subject.  And  then  I  wrote  that  second  letter,  because 
I  thought  if  you  cared  to  —  to  speak  of  him,  it  would 
give  you  the  chance  .  .  .  And  because  you 
did  n't,  I  did  n't  speak  of  him  again.  Mrs.  Lynde 
asked  me,  two  or  three  weeks  ago,  why  I  'd  told  him  of 
our  engagement  —  he  'd  spoken  of  it  to  her,  it  seems 
—  I  forgot  to  ask  him  not  to  —  and  she  evidently 
wanted  to  talk.  But  I  wouldn't  —  naturally." 

"  Go  on." 

"  And  —  just  because  I  suspected,  I  tried  to  keep 
away  from  him  too.  Any  man  in  my  place  would. 
But  circumstances  kept  forcing  us  together.  He  was 


326  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


at  the  hospital  three  months  or  more.  We  got  to  be 
fairly  good  friends.  But  we  did  n't  speak  of  you 
again  till  the  night  before  he  left.  And  then  he  asked 
suddenly  how  you  were;  and  from  something  in  his 
manner  —  I  don't  know  what  —  or  perhaps  because  I 
was  on  the  look-out,  however  much  against  my  will  — 
I  could  n't  help  seeing  he  was  more  than  ordinarily  in- 
terested —  though  I  'd  supposed  from  what  you  told 
me,  that  he  did  n't  love  you, —  that  that  was  the  reason 
why  ...  He  paused.  "  I  told  him  you 

were  n't  very  well." 

"  He  must  have  guessed  that  already." 

But  France  seemed  not  to  hear  that.  "  Then  I  told 
him  of  our  engagement  I  'm  not  proud  of  myself 
for  that.  I  just  did  it  to  —  to  make  surer.  And  if 
he  had  n't  had  such  a  hell  of  a  life,  I  'd  have  been  small 
enough  to  —  " 

"  He  knew  it  already." 

"He  knew—?" 

"  He  knew  I  was  going  to  marry  somebody.  And 
he  did  n't  care." 

"  And  you  —  he  .     My  suspicions,  then  —  " 

"  You  did  n't  suspect.  You  knew  he  was  —  the 
Other  One."  There  was  a  long  pause.  "  I  wrote  him 
.  You  may  as  well  know  all  the  rest  now  — 
and  forever.  I  came  here  to  Boston  to  see  him  and 
you,  the  day  I  got  your  letter  —  when  you  went  to  the 
Lyndes'  and  could  n't  find  me." 

"  I  was  n't  in  an  enviable  mood  that  day." 


IN    THE    HOUR   OF    NEED      327 

"  I  went  to  Boston  to  tell  him  about  you,  and  you 
about  him.  And  when  I  could  n't  see  him,  I  wrote 
a  note  which  .  .  .  He  would  have  answered  it, 
if  —  if  he  had  cared  for  me  at  all  ...  Oh, 
give  me  time !  .  .1  wrote  him  I  was  engaged  to 

—  to  some  one  I  did  n't  love.    But  he  never  answered." 

"  He  said  he  did  n't  know  you  were  engaged." 

"He  did  know.  ...  He  said  that?  .  .  . 
France !  "  She  turned  and  seized  his  arm.  "  France ! 
What  makes  you  think  he  said  such  a  thing?  Oh,  re- 
member —  carefully !  —  every  word !  I  gave  the  note 
to  his  mother."  Zandrie  was  trembling.  "Quick! 
Remember  what  he  said !  " 

"He  said  he  'd  heard  nothing  about  it  —  your  en- 
gagement. He  said  what  I  told  you, — '  I  did  n't 
know  she  was  engaged  to  any  one.'  And  I  saw  it  was 
a  shock,  too  —  a  bad  one,  I  think.  He  turned  white. 
And  I  was  devil  enough  to  —  " 

"I  gave  the  note  to  his  mother  .  .  .  But  he 
couldn't  lie." 

"  He  was  n't  lying." 

After  another  long  pause,  "  And  God  let  me  marry 
you.  O  Mother  of  Heaven!" 

The  cab  had  stopped  again.  They  were  at  the 
wharf.  France  held  out  his  hand  to  help  her,  but 
she  avoided  it.  He  looked  rather  as  though  he  needed 
help  himself. 

Neither  spoke  to  the  other  again  till  they  were  in 
their  stateroom.  It  was  very  small  in  spite  of  its 


328  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

two  berths.  At  sight  of  it,  Zandrie  had  clasped  her 
hands  against  her  throat. 

"Would  you  rather  go  back  to  the  Lyndes?"  he 
asked. 

"  No." 

"  There  may  be  another  room  —  for  you.  There 
sometimes  are  rooms  at  the  last  moment.  I  '11  find 
out  as  soon  as  I  get  back."  He  had  to  return  to 
Boston  for  several  errands.  He  gave  her  seventy- 
five  dollars,  meanwhile.  "  That  would  get  you  to 
Paris  in  fine  style,  if  anything —  But  nothing  but 
loss  of  life  or  limb  could  detain  me,  you  know.  My 
business  can't  take  more  than  an  hour.  Still,  if 
you  're  the  least  bit  nervous  — " 

"  I  'm  not." 

"You'd  rather  stay  here?" 

"  On  deck/'  she  said. 

By  the  time  that  the  deck  steward  had  been  found, 
and  chairs  engaged,  France  had  to  go.  His  eyes 
plead,  but  she  had  nothing  to  give.  For  many  min- 
utes after  the  steward  had  left  her  in  her  chair, 
wrapped  in  her  husband's  rug,  she  lay  as  still  as 
though  frozen. 

In  her  first  terror  on  the  train,  she  had  compelled 
France  to  tell  her  that  marriage  was  a  less  simple 
relationship  than  she  had  supposed.  And  she  was 
the  more  terrified  now,  perhaps,  in  that  she  was  un- 
certain whether  even  yet  she  understood  fully.  But, 
although  she  recoiled  from  France  because  of  what 


IN    THE    HOUR    OF    NEED       329 

she  half  knew,  she  hated  him  first  of  all  as  the  em- 
blem of  her  own  undoing.  Yes, —  her  own  undo- 
ing, wrought  by  none  but  herself.  And  yet  so  easy 
for  a  God  of  mercy  to  have  prevented.  Rather,  it 
seemed  that  some  demon  hungry  for  malice,  had 
brought  her  to  such  woe,  driving  her  to  the  madness 
of  this  marriage.  Married  forever!  —  to  a  man  from 
whose  touch  she  shrank,  now  that  she  guessed  the 
meaning  of  marriage.  Married,  when  the  mere  sus- 
picion would  surely  have  saved  her.  Why  had  Mrs. 
Lynde  not  guessed  her  convent  ignorance?  —  not 
asked  a  question  at  the  last  moment,  as  a  mother 
would  surely  have  done?  Then  she  remembered  that 
the  clergyman  was  already  there  and  every  one  wait- 
ing, when  Mrs.  Lynde  arrived.  No,  she  was  not  to 
blame;  only  herself  —  Zandrie  —  and  the  malignant 
Power  that  led  her  to  marry  because  of  what  had 
seemed  proof  that  Julian  no  longer  loved  her, —  when 
least  suspicion  of  the  validity  of  the  evidence  would 
have  saved  her. 

Could  she  question  its  validity  now?  .  .  .  But 
surely,  Julian  could  not  lie.  .  .  .  And  why  should 
he  have  lied  to  France?  .  .  .  And  France  saw 
that  he  loved  her, —  that  the  news  of  her  engagement 
was  a  shock. 

She  sat  up  suddenly,  as  the  full  meaning  of  what 
France  had  said  in  the  carriage,  broke  upon  her.  So 
he  had  thought,  formerly,  that  Julian  did  not  love  her ; 
thought  that  was  what  kept  Julian  and  herself  apart! 


330  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


He  had  married  her,  knowing  —  or  suspecting  —  he 
must  have  suspected  —  that  she  dreamed  of  dark 
waters  because  she  believed  that  the  man  she  loved 
did  not  love  her.  He  had  discovered  that  Julian  was 
the  man,  and  that  Julian  loved  her;  and  yet  he  had 
married  her  without  saying  a  word  —  without  a  sin- 
gle effort  to  help, —  because  he  himself  could  not  love 
her  well  enough  to  give  her  up.  He  had  stolen  her 
hope,  with  his  eyes  open.  His  love  had  failed  at 
its  first  test.  It  was  not  till  later  that  she  could  own 
that  the  test  was  hard.  The  thing  he  had  failed  to 
do, —  that  was  the  cause  of  her  undoing,  she  said 
now.  The  sole  cause.  A  greater  hearted  man  could 
not  have  failed.  "  Traitor  to  Julian  too,"  she  whis- 
pered. And  then  she  covered  her  eyes,  to  shut  the 
sight  of  France  from  her  mind. 

Her  note  had  not  reached  Julian.  Oh  no;  of  that 
there  could  be  no  doubt.  His  mother  had  lost  it, 
perhaps.  But  had  she  not  told  him  of  Zandrie's  visit? 
Could  she  have  forgotten  that?  And  if  she  had  told, 
would  he  have  written,  if  he  .  .  .  She  struggled 
to  think  out  all  the  possible  results  of  her  encounter 
with  Mrs.  Roswell;  but  her  thought  only  sank  into 
a  whirlpool  of  incoherence, —  whence  somehow,  at 
last,  hope  emerged.  The  sickness  of  certainty  that 
Julian  did  not  love  her  —  that,  at  least,  was  gone. 

She  flung  her  wraps  open  and  sprang  up  to  give 
vent  to  the  formless,  surging  hope  that  had  like  to 
burst  her  heart.  Her  feet  carried  her,  she  did  not 


IN    THE    HOUR    OF    NEED     331 

know  how,  to  the  boat  deck,  where  wind  and  rain 
beat  unheeded  on  her  face. 

I  believe  that  her  last  flight  to  Julian  was  resolved 
as  innocently  as  the  first,  when  she  trudged  with  a  lit- 
tle bundle  of  clothes  under  her  arm,  three  miles  from 
the  convent  to  the  hospital,  to  tell  her  Knight  that  she 
had  come  to  stay.  She  had  gone  to  him  then  as 
metal  to  its  magnet,  without  debate  of  right  or  wrong, 
except  for  the  question  of  what  Sister  Angela  would 
say,  and  the  exhilarating  certainty  that  the  nun  would 
punish  her  if  she  could.  She  had  gone  to  him  to  be 
saved.  To  whom  else  should  she  go?  So  now. 
And  there  was  no  conflict  of  conscience  now,  except 
for  a  moment,  in  the  matter  of  leaving  France  after 
her  vow  to  abide  with  him  for  better  or  for  worse. 
But  the  fact  that  she  had  signed  that  contract  ig- 
norant of  its  terms,  must  absolve  her  in  the  eyes  of 
God  and  of  Julian.  Knowledge  of  its  terms  had  re- 
vealed this:  that  of  all  lives,  married  life  with  France 
was  the  least  thinkable,  the  most  impossible,  the  most 
revolting  to  every  instinct.  But  the  thought  of  re- 
turn to  the  Lyndes  held  cruelly  little  welcome  —  was 
equally  impossible.  And  so,  from  the  intolerable  im- 
passe, she  flew  once  more  for  help,  to  the  one  whom 
since  childhood  she  had  made  the  repository  of  all  her 
confidence, —  of  the  only  vital  faith  her  nature  had 
yielded.  For  help  —  that  was  all  —  out  of  a  misery 
that,  like  the  water  of  her  dream,  snatched  her  feet 


332  ZANDRIE 


with  a  threat  to  suck  her  down  to  destruction.  She 
would  go  to  Julian  to  find  whether  he  loved  her  still ; 
and  if  he  loved  her,  she  would  tell  him  all;  and  then, 
after  that  .  .  .  All  must  be  somehow  well,  if  he 
loved  her.  And  he  would  tell  her  how. 

She  had  intended  to  leave  a  note  for  France,  saying 
that  she  had  decided  not  to  go  with  him ;  but  when  she 
reached  the  writing  room,  it  was  a  quarter  after  four, 
and  she  dared  not  stop.  For,  if  he  returned  before 
she  left  the  boat,  he  might  insist  upon  taking  her 
back  to  the  Lyndes.  To  avoid  all  risk  of  hindrance, 
it  would  be  better,  since  she  could  not  write,  that  he 
should  believe  her  on  board  till  after  the  boat  had 
sailed.  So  she  left  her  suit-case  in  the  state  room, 
taking  out  only  a  few  small  things  that  could  be 
wrapped  in  a  piece  of  paper.  Everything  would  point 
to  her  having  gotten  up  from  her  steamer  chair  mere- 
ly to  wander  about.  On  so  large  a  boat,  two  persons 
might  easily  miss  meeting  one  another  for  an  hour; 
and  without  proof  of  her  having  gone  ashore,  he 
would  not  dare  to  let  it  sail  without  him.  Her  brain 
was  very  clear  now,  working  readily  for  the  first 
time  in  four  months. 

But  although  she  left  no  note  for  France,  she  slipt 
her  wedding  ring  under  the  lower  berth  in  his  room, 
where  it  would  tell  him,  that  night,  all  he  need  know 
for  the  present. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

"  NO    PAST    IS    MINE ;    NO    FUTURE  " 

The  long  journey  was  over,  and  with  it,  the  rain. 
Out  of  the  west,  from  under  a  sluice-gate  of  metal- 
gray,  ribbed  cloud,  the  sun  rolled  a  tide  of  mellow 
light  flushing  the  pools  with  liquid  gold;  and  on  the 
back  of  the  tide,  a  warm  west  wind  sang  down  the 
street,  begging  their  golden  drops  from  the  syca- 
mores and  oaks,  yet  all  so  softly  that  robins  and 
orioles  almost  drowned  its  voice. 

It  was  a  street  of  none  but  very  old  houses  —  this 
Marshall  street  —  its  dwellings  hospitably  ample 
though  guarded  by  jealous,  intertwining  trees;  gra- 
cious with  vines  and  exquisite  with  the  mezzotints 
of  decay:  at  sunset,  a  street  of  remembered  romance, 
dying  passion,  and  half-realized  dreams. 

One  old  brick  house,  with  its  wide,  welcoming 
veranda  and  vine-bound  columns,  so  wrought  its  spell 
of  reminiscent  beauty  that  Zandrie  lingered  at  its 
gate,  watching  where  the  sunset  light  filtered  through 
between  knotted  ropes  of  wisteria  and  their  burdens 
of  blossoms,  to  warm  the  old,  rose-red  hearts  of  the 
bricks.  It  stood  back  from  the  street  behind  a  cedar 

333 


334  Z  A  N  D  R I  E 


hedge,  flanked  by  undisciplined  body-guards  of 
beeches,  sycamores,  and  sweeping  pines,  apple-trees 
clinging  to  their  handfuls  of  late  blossoms,  lilacs 
loaded  to  bending,  and  brave  camellias, —  all  a  tangle 
of  crimson,  white,  violet,  and  the  whole  gamut  of 
greens.  Somewhere,  perhaps  near,  perhaps  in  the 
heart  of  some  thicket  far  to  the  back  where  the  ground 
fell  to  the  level  of  a  secret  brook,  a  veery  thrush 
twisted  his  mysterious  spirals  of  song. 

When  Zandrie  met  a  child  whom  she  asked  to  point 
out  the  old  Marshall  house,  and  found  it  was  Julian's 
gate  at  which  she  had  lingered,  the  coincidence 
seemed  a  happy  omen. 

It  was  not  till  the  cry  of  her  name  reached  her 
that  she  saw  him,  because  of  a  dizziness  that  blinded 
her  at  first,  and  because  the  long  room  between  them 
was  in  twilight.  He  was  at  the  piano,  from  whose 
shadow  some  one  started  up  and  stood  curiously  still 
while  Zandrie  crossed  the  room  to  Julian's  side.  He 
took  both  her  hands  and  repeated  her  name,  low,  in- 
credulously. His  back  was  to  the  western  windows, 
so  that  she  still  barely  saw  his  face;  but  their  hands 
clung  together  and  she  knew  that  there  was  no  need 
of  the  question  she  had  come  to  ask. 

The  figure  at  the  farther  end  of  the  piano  stirred  at 
last.  "  Introduce  us,  laddie."  It  was  the  exquisite 
voice  of  Mrs.  Roswell. 

Julian  started  slightly  and  released  Zandrie's  hands. 


'NO    PAST    IS    MINE'  335 

"  My  mother,  Mrs.  Roswell  —  Miss  Donallon  —  I 
mean  Miss  Lynde." 

Mrs.  Roswell  laughed  softly.  "  Is  it  too  dark  to 
see  which  ? "  She  brought  a  chair  and  rang  for  a 
maid,  chatting  while  a  massive  negress  lighted  can- 
dles and  a  lamp  and  peered  curiously  at  the  guest 
towards  whose  face  her  master's  was  turned  so  search- 
ingly.  But  Zandrie  did  not  look  at  him  yet  —  not 
with  others  in  the  room. 

Mrs.  Roswell  exclaimed  when  the  candles  on  the 
piano  were  lighted.  "  Ah !  I  thought  as  much. 
We  've  met  before,  Miss  Lynde  —  or  Miss  Donallon? 
.  .  .  at  the  hospital,  was  n't  it  ?  —  Dr.  Ward's,  in 
Boston  ?  "  The  voice  was  sweet  with  friendly  sur- 
prise. "  I  hoped  we  'd  surely  meet  again.  Indeed, 
I  'd  have  written  if  I  'd  only  known  your  name  and 
address,  but  you  told  me  only  your  first  name,  you 
know  —  and  I  forgot  that.  O  careless  me !  But 
I  forget  everything!  And  that  was  a  day  of  such 
anxiety.  If  you  only  knew  — "  Her  voice  was 
pleading  now ;  her  eyes  sought  Julian's.  "  If  you 
knew,  you  'd  forgive  me.  Sonnie,  I  hardly  dare 
confess !  I  did  n't  dare  at  the  time.  But  it 's  bound 
to  come  out, —  that  I  lost  that  note.  She  came  to 
the  hospital,  laddie,  and  left  a  note,  the  very  day 
of  your  operation;  and  somehow  or  other  it  got  mis- 
laid. Everything  was  in  such  confusion  —  especially 
my  poor  wits.  And  then  when  I  absolutely  could  n't 


336  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

find  it,  nor  remember  her  name  —  Zandrie,  was  it, 
that  you  called  her  just  now  ?  —  well,  then  I  was  too 
ashamed.  I  knew  you  'd  be  so  disgusted  with  your 
poor,  weak-minded  mother.  But  I  was  sure  she  'd 
write,  or  come  again."  Her  eyes  were  wide  with  ap- 
peal. "  I  always  do  confess  my  sins  in  spite  of  my- 
self!" 

Her  smile,  if  the  tales  of  Marjorie  Marshall  are 
true,  had  bewitched  many  a  man  and  woman  too, 
before  Zandrie,  who,  looking  into  her  blue  eyes,  for- 
got distrust  and  laid  forgiveness  at  her  feet. 

"  And  I  came  again."  It  was  all  she  could  find 
to  say,  because  she  was  still  trying  not  to  look  at 
Julian. 

"  I  hoped  for  it,"  said  Mrs.  Roswell,  "  I  Ve  felt  so 
guilty ;  and  besides  .  .  .  Ah  Julian !  —  you  ras- 
cal ! "  Her  voice  dropped  to  a  tremulous  violin-tone. 
"  And  I  thought  —  poor,  silly  me !  —  that  I  knew  so 
much  about  you." 

He  caught  her  hand  almost  roughly  to  push  her 
away.  "  I  must  be  alone  with  her,"  he  said. 

Her  lips  still  smiled  although  they  were  pale. 

His  hands  found  Zandrie's  again  as  each  stared  at 
the  other  in  the  candle-light.  "  What  has  hap- 
pened ?  "  he  asked  at  last. 

"Tell  me/'  said  Zandrie,  "truthfully  ..." 
She  thought  he  could  read  the  question  from  her  eyes. 

Perhaps  he  did,  for  his  own  turned  from  her,  and 


"NO    PAST    IS    MINE'  337 

his  face  grew  pale.  "  You  are  engaged  ...  to 
Royce." 

"  No.     Don't  speak  of  him  now." 

"You  aren't  ...  ? "  He  looked  up  with 
startled,  shining  eyes.  "  Not  .  .  .  ? " 

"  I  hate  him.  I  never  loved  him.  I  came  to  be 
saved  from  him."  She  knelt  beside  him  as  of  old. 
"  Do  you  love  me  ?  Answer !  " 

"  You  don't  love  Royce  ?  You  are  n't  ...  O 
my  God!" 

A  minute  later,  "  Ah!  "  she  gasped,  laughing  softly, 
"you're  strong!"  Then  tears  shut  him  from  her 
sight  and  she  huddled  close,  clinging  with  both  hands, 
her  face  in  the  hollow  of  his  shoulder,  and  sobbed 
till  the  steady  strength  of  his  clasp  brought  her  peace. 
"  You  '11  not  send  me  away  again ! "  It  was  an 
ecstatic  assertion  —  not  a  question. 

He  kissed  her  eyes.  "  Sometimes,"  he  said,  "  I 
dared  hope  —  for  this.  Sometimes  —  though  seldom 
—  till  he  told  me,  four  weeks  ago  .  .  .  and 
then—" 

"  You  mean  —  if  I  'd  come  before,  you  'd  have  let 
me  stay?"  She  challenged  him  with  sudden,  pro- 
found surprise. 

"  Lately,  since  the  operation  especially,  I  thought 
that  if  you  loved  me  still  —  after  you  were  all  grown 
up  ...  I  did  n't  believe  you  would,  quite, 
but  if  you  did  and  ever  came  of  your  own  free  will, — 

I  thought  I  'd  have  more  right  — " 
22 


338  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


"  I  came.     I  came.     .     .     ." 

"  You  came  to  the  hospital,  my  mother  said  —  in 
the  same  way  ?  " 

"  Yes  And  —  O  Julian !  I  '11  try  to  forgive  her 
for  forgetting ! " 

"  And  I     ...     Tell  me  about  it." 

But  instead,  "Do  you  love  her  very  much?"  she 
asked.  "  I  did  n't  know  you  had  a  mother,  till  that 
day.  That  seems  so  strange  still." 

He  was  silent. 

"  I  thought —    You  surely  told  me  she  was  dead." 

"  And  you  don't  know  why  ?  Mrs.  Lynde  never 
told  you?  That  was  good  of  her."  He  would  not 
meet  her  eyes  just  then. 

"  Perhaps  I  understand,  dear,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  You  thought,  because  she  married  again  and  went 
away,  she  did  n't  love  you." 

"  I  think  she  did  n't  very  much." 

"  I  love  you,"  Zandrie  whispered. 

"  I  forbade  you  to." 

"  It  was  arrogant  —  just  like  you,  dear !  "  Then 
she  caught  his  face  between  her  hands  and  turned  it 
to  the  light.  "Yes!  —  yes.  It's  Julian!  .  .  . 
The  past  is  a  dream." 

I  think  she  believed  that  it  was  indeed. 

He  summoned  Carter  to  carry  him  to  a  couch  near 
an  open  window,  through  which  the  western  breeze, 
sunk  to  a  breath,  drifted  in,  heavy  with  the  fragrance 
of  lilac.  Zandrie  crouched  on  cushions  on  the  floor 


"NO    PAST    IS    MINE'  339 

beside  him.  He  asked  no  questions.  "  I  had  to 
come,"  she  whispered  once  of  her  own  accord,  and  he 
seemed  content.  When  she  spoke  of  the  languorous 
beauty  of  the  old  house  and  grounds,  "  Shall  we  stay, 
then?  "  he  asked.  But  she  would  neither  talk  of  the 
future  herself  nor  let  him.  She  was  jealous,  she  said, 
for  their  first  perfect  hour;  and  it  was  true,  though 
whatever  fear  she  might  have  was  not  of  the  future 
itself,  which  had  no  meaning  now,  but  of  its  claiming 
a  meaning,  perhaps  at  the  fire  of  some  word  which 
might  be  the  signal  for  fears  to  rush  upon  and  rob 
her  blissful  hour.  For  her,  time  was  become  a  star- 
lit river,  flowing  from  bliss  to  nowhere  but  bliss 
again.  "  The  past  is  a  dream,"  she  said  once  more. 
"  And  if  there  were  a  future,  it  could  hold  only  you 
and  me.  It  would  be  this." 

Yet  she  led  him  to  talk  of  his  own  past  as  though 
it  were  real:  of  his  boyhood,  before  he  went  abroad; 
of  old  haunts  and  friends,  including  his  first  organ 
master,  the  Russian,  who  was  actually  an  exile  as 
gossip  had  it,  though  by  no  means  a  hurler  of  bombs; 
it  was  he  who  had  played  that  night  in  the  Catholic 
church,  he  said  .  .  .  But  she  would  not  speak  of 
that  evening  yet.  So  he  told  of  the  somber  evenings 
in  his  father's  house,  and  the  far  from  somber  nights 
in  his  grandfather's,  with  the  godless  old  man  and  his 
merry  associates.  He  told  all  the  best  there  was  to 
tell  of  Colonel  "  Jehu  " ;  but  of  his  mother  he  spoke 
not  at  all,  shrinking  in  his  turn  perhaps  from  what 


340  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


might  soil  the  beauty  of  the  hour;  and  Zandrie  was 
satisfied  with  her  own  account  of  his  silence.  But 
"  I  hardly  believed  good  women  were  made,"  he 
said,  "  till  I  knew  my  aunt.  I  'm  glad  you  don't 
know  what  a  devil  I  was,  the  first  few  years  after 
my  mishap.  But  she  made  me  ashamed.  I  wish  she 
could  have  lived  till  you  came." 

Of  herself,  Zandrie  would  tell  only  how  she  believed 
she  had  lost  the  love  of  the  Lyndes,  partly  through 
her  own  fault  of  silence,  "  and  because  I  was  as  a 
thankless  child,"  she  said,  "  until  it  was  too  late." 
And  then  she  told  how  she  had  followed  him  into  the 
church.  "  And  you  did  n't  know  it  was  I,  until  the 
last  ?  "  She  rose  to  her  knees  and  bent  over  him. 
"  Julian !  —  did  n't  you  love  me  at  all,  that  night  — 
enough  to  know  when  I  was  calling  to  you  just  to 
turn  and  save  me  ?  " 

He  caught  her  to  him.  "  I  never  dreamed  but  that 
you  were  happier  than  I.  Even  at  the  last,  when  I 
saw  you,  I  thought  it  was  chance  —  that  you  'd  come 
to  pray  in  the  church,  or  to  listen.  If  you  had  spoken 
—  that  night  — " 

"  I  was  afraid,"  she  said.     "  But  I  'm  saved  now." 

And  as  long  as  she  touched  him,  she  believed  it. 
That  certainty  of  his  bodily  presence,  and  the  pas- 
sionate delight  of  the  certainty,  left  no  room  for  fear. 
Nothing  else  had  meaning. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Mrs.  Roswell  came  into  the  room. 


"NO    PAST    IS    MINE'  341 

"  I  thought  this  hour  would  stay,"  Zandrie  whis- 
pered. 

"  It 's  coming  again,"  he  said,  "  ten  thousand  times, 
—  and  mornings  too, —  and  afternoons!  .  .  . 
Kiss  me  once  more, —  good-night." 

"  Not  yet." 

'  Yes,  for  you  're  tired.  When  you  first  came  in, 
you  looked  almost  ill,  so  that  I  was  frightened. 
You  're  tired  from  the  long  journey." 

Mrs.  Roswell  was  standing  very  still  near  the  door. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  you  're  forgiven !  She 's 
come  back.  She  's  come  back !  I  have  her !  And 
George  Deming  's  coming  over  to  marry  us  ... 
when  ?  —  to-morrow  ?  —  Monday  morning  ?  A  day 
and  a  half 's  a  long  enough  engagement,  in  all 
conscience!  .  .  .  Here,  Mother  —  take  her  up- 
stairs, quick !  —  if  you  can  get  her !  "  And  he 
laughed  softly  as  he  caught  her  to  him  again  and 
held  her  as  though  he  would  never  let  her  go,  crush- 
ing out  the  fear  that  had  entered  with  that  word, 
"  marry  " ;  kissing  his  own  exultation  into  her. 

Mrs.  Roswell  did  not  stir  until  Zandrie  went  to 
her  and  took  her  hand;  and  then  there  was  no  re- 
sponse but  a  smile  of  the  lips  that  meant  nothing  — 
not  love,  at  least.  But  a  minute  later,  she  was  the 
gracious  hostess,  thoughtful  for  the  comfort  of  her 
guest,  whom  she  led  to  a  room  furnished  with  shining 
old  mahogany, —  the  bed,  a  great  four-poster,  hos- 


342  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

pitably  opened,  its  linen  and  crisp  hangings  haunted 
with  old  garden  perfumes.  Maryland  biscuit  and  a 
glass  of  wine  stood  with  the  candles  on  a  table  beside 
it.  "  Ring  for  your  breakfast  whenever  you  choose," 
she  said.  "  We  lazy  southerners  sleep  till  when  we 
please  and  breakfast  in  our  rooms." 

So  she  played  the  part  of  gracious  hostess,  mistress 
of  herself  until  she  bade  her  guest  good-night  and 
reached  the  door.  But  there  she  fumbled  for  the 
knob,  and  let  it  go  when  found,  and  wheeled  about,  her 
shadow  on  the  wall  trembling.  The  sweetness  went 
from  her  voice,  leaving  it  a  little  hoarse.  "  Is  it  true 
—  what  he  said  —  that  you  're  going  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Zandrie  answered,  and  believed  it ;  for, 
though  removed  from  the  contagion  of  Julian's  own 
blind  joy,  a  new  thought  had  come  to  feed  hers.  The 
thought  of  divorce.  There  was  an  institution  called 
divorce,  by  which  marriages  were  somehow  cancelled, 
vows  abrogated.  She  knew  little  about  it ;  had  thought 
little  about  it,  till  of  a  sudden  it  was  the  pivotal  inter- 
est of  her  life. 

Julian's  mother  took  a  step  nearer  and  then  stood 
trembling.  "  You  're  taking  all  I  have  left.  I  'd  al- 
most won  him  —  almost !  And  I  '11  win  yet.  Have 
you  broken  your  word  to  Dr.  Royce?  Or  did  he  jilt 
you?  .  .  .  Julian  has  more  money,  to  be  sure. 
But  have  you  thought  of  the  life  here?  —  have  you 
thought  of  that?  Do  you  suppose  people  will  call  on 
you  much  more  than  me?  For  he  really  is  my  son, 


"NO    PAST    IS    MINE'  343 

you  see  —  I  reckon  you  believe  he  's  got  a  mother, 
at  last  —  and  I  'm  in  the  house.  I  've  been  here  four 
weeks  and  no  one  has  called  yet, —  but  little  Gray 
Summers.  Do  you  suppose  you  '11  be  recognized 
either?  To  be  sure,  Gray  Summers  Deming  may  ask 
you  to  a  quiet  little  family  supper ;  but  that 's  because 
she's  George  Deming's  —  a  minister's  wife,  and  an 
opposite  neighbor,  and  kind  to  all  deserving  people, 
whether  their  connections  are  strictly  respectable  or 
not.  Delightful  diversion  —  little  Gray's  family  sup- 
pers! Oh  yes,  and  some  of  Julian's  men  friends, 
maybe,  will  drop  in  to  smoke  with  him  even  after 
he  's  got  a  wife.  But  for  the  rest  —  have  you  really 
thought?  —  day  after  day  in  this  house,  alone  with  a 
crippled  man  and  me.  And  there  '11  be  little  love  lost 
between  you  and  me  —  I  can  promise  that  —  if  I  lose 
him  through  you.  I  tell  you,  if  I  lose  him,  you  shall 
lose  him  too  —  O  yes  you  shall !  —  if  he  does  n't 
tire  of  you  anyhow  without  my  help."  She  stopped, 
while  her  eyes  looked  Zandrie  over  from  head  to  foot. 
Her  own  face  was  almost  beautiful  still,  in  spite  of  its 
passion  of  hate.  "  You !  .  .  .  My  lips  are  as  red 
as  yours,  I  reckon.  You  're  pale !  You  look  starved 
—  sick!  What's  been  happening?  Your  Doctor 
tired  of  you  so  soon?  Doctors  want  a  rest  from  their 
practice,  to  be  sure,  when  they  come  home.  All  men 
want  happy,  well  fed  women.  And  Julian 's  a 
man,  you  know,  if  he  is  a  cripple.  He  has  senses. 
And  he  's  a  Marshall,  too.  He  could  have  done  what 


344  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


he  chose  with  women ;  they  're  mad  about  him  —  those 
who  meet  him  —  even  now.  And  he  knows  his  own 
power  —  be  sure  of  that !  And  when  he  's  done  with 
you  .  .  .  Unless  your  skill — "  She  laughed. 
"  Marry  him,  dear !  Marry  him.  I  'm  not  afraid. 
Your  day  will  be  short  and  none  too  joyful." 

For  a  full  minute  after  the  door  had  closed,  Zan- 
drie  leaned  against  a  carved  post  of  the  bed,  her 
hands  at  her  ears  because  the  voice  seemed  to  assail 
them  still.  Yet  she  was  too  tired  to  understand  more 
now  than  that  she  was  hated  by  Julian's  mother.  Most 
of  the  words  were  forgotten  already.  She  was  too 
tired  to  be  frightened  or  even  unhappy,  or  to  seek  out 
Julian  for  the  reassuring  touch  of  his  hand.  The 
knowledge  that  he  was  within  reach  to-night  and  for- 
ever—  that  was  enough  now.  And  as  soon  as  she 
lay  in  the  great  bed,  sleep  drowned  her,  body  and 
soul,  in  fathomless  peace. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   LAST   JOUST 

The  negress  who  brought  her  breakfast  at  half  past 
ten  was  bubbling  with  sly  chuckles.  "  You  've  'cumu- 
lated more  'n  yo'  beauty  sleep,  an'  yo'  young  man  — 
he 's  gettin'  uneasy  about  you'  not  gettin'  within 
hand-reach  yet.  Who  you  s'pose,  now,  devised  on 
the  idea  of  that  effulgious  bouquet?"  She  pointed 
eloquently  to  some  wood-violets  on  the  tray. 

There  was  a  note  too,  in  a  sealed  envelope;  but 
when  Zandrie  took  it  up,  the  happiness  to  which  she 
had  waked  met  its  first  check,  for  the  writing  was  not 
Julian's. 

"  Zandrie,"  she  read,  "  I  am  on  my  knees  to  you. 
You  could  be  jealous  yourself,  though,  for  the  man 
you  love,  and  suppose  he  were  all  you  had  to  love 
or  to  love  you,  and  that  after  you  had  been  cruelly 
separated  from  him  for  years,  you  thought  you  had 
him  safe  again  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  And  then 
suppose  that  another  woman  dropped  from  the  sky 
into  his  very  arms,  and  he  and  she  just  turned  to  you 
and  said  *  You  may  go  now.'  You  are  generous  and 
good  although  you  are  happy.  If  Julian  knew  how 

345 


346  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


I  spoke  to  you  last  night  he  could  never  forgive  me, 
but  you  will  and  I  think  he  won't  know  till  I  myself 
confess,  as  I  shall  some  miserable  day  of  course.  I 
am  very  miserable,  Zandrie,  but  you  will  be  kind  to 
me? 

"  MARJORIE  ROSWELL." 

Zandrie  kissed  the  signature.  What  was  there  to 
forgive  but  some  poor,  foolish  words  wrung  out  of 
jealousy?  Of  course  she  would  not  tell  Julian  the 
few  she  remembered  —  though  she  would  keep  from 
him  nothing  else  in  the  world.  She  would  tell  him 
about  France.  .  .  .  Well,  she  would  not  kiss  him 
till  she  had  told.  But  the  idea  of  telling  him  held  no 
terror,  for  even  if  fear  seized  her  while  she  spoke, 
he  would  hold  her  close  and  show  her  the  way  to  the 
Land  of  Heart's  Desire. 

And  their  day  began  with  laughter,  when  she  found 
him  in  the  long  west  room,  alone,  seated  on  the  sill 
of  a  window  that  opened  to  the  fragrant,  sunshot  gar- 
den, and  she  gave  him  both  her  hands, —  but  nothing 
more  at  first,  according  to  her  promise.  "  Not  yet," 
she  said,  breathing  fast  as  his  hold  of  her  hands  tight- 
ened, and  his  eyes  laughed  at  denial.  "  No !  —  no !  — 
I  made  a  promise." 

But  it  was  broken.  Well,  she  had  broken  other 
promises  and  no  harm  had  come  yet.  She  could  af- 
ford to  break  yet  more  —  for  this. 

A  minute  later  she  took  his  face  between  her  hands. 


THE    LAST   JOUST  347 

"  It 's  almost  the  same  as  when  I  saw  it  first  —  when 
I  sat  on  the  convent  wall  and  you  galloped  past." 

"  And  I  put  you  on  the  saddle  before  me,  did  n't 
I?  —  and  we  galloped  through  ten  years  —  to  this? 
Well,  we  're  here !  What  does  it  matter,  the  way  we 
came  ?  " 

"  What  does  it  matter,"  she  repeated.  "  Remem- 
ber you  said  that."  But  she  shied  away  from  the 
question  in  his  eyes,  as  from  whatever  might  carry  her 
out  of  the  enchanted  present. 

He  took  her  hands  again.  "  Listen,  what  an  old 
sport  I  am !  I  came  here  from  the  piano  all  alone  — 
well,  with  crutches  of  course,  but  wholly  without  Car- 
ter except  that  he  sort  of  started  me.  I  reckon  I  made 
the  trip  in  less  than  three  minutes."  He  launched  this 
boast  with  the  glee  of  a  boy  who  has  broken  a  record. 

"  And  you  can  play." 

"  Some.  Not  much  man's-size  music,  but  —  But 
I  bet  I  could  ride  now  if  they  'd  tie  me  on!  I  can 
drive,  anyhow.  Will  you  go  driving  with  me  ?  We  '11 
drive  all  over  the  map.  And  maybe  I  '11  let  you  ride 
with  Mother  —  she  's  off  riding  now  —  if  you  're  right 
careful  when  roads  are  icy.  Mother  's  a  wonder  at 
it.  Over  fifty,  and  a  seat  in  the  saddle  'most  as  good 
as  her  son's  in  his  day.  .  .  .  What 's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

She  smiled  through  tears.  "  Nothing  .  .  . 
nothing  but  just  brave  you." 

"  Me !     Crying  over  me !     .     .     .     because  I  'm  so 


348  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


happy,  the  gods  would  destroy  me  right  quick  if  they 
heard  about  it  ? "  He  laughed  and  crushed  her  to 
him.  "  What  more  do  I  want !  .  .  .  Don't  leave 
me  again  —  that 's  all.  When  '11  you  marry  me  ? 
This  afternoon?  The  Reverend  George  Deming — " 

But  she  put  a  hand  over  his  mouth.  "  You  asked 
what  more  you  could  want  than  this." 

"  But  this  means  — " 

"  Not  yet ! "  and  she  twisted  away  as  far  as  his 
grasp  of  one  of  her  wrists  would  allow,  to  pick  up  a 
book  that  he  had  dropped  as  she  came  in.  "  '  Cyrano 
de  Bergerac',"  she  read,  to  change  the  talk.  "  Poor, 
brave  Cyrano  —  how  I  've  cried  over  him !  " 

"  I  never  cried  over  him." 

"  You  're  making  fun  of  me.  I  always  cry  over 
very  brave  men  who  lose  everything." 

He  admitted  that  Cyrano  had  a  hard  time.  "  But 
he  did  n't  lose  everything,  you  know,  after  all  —  not 
what  he  probably  cared  about  most  of  all." 

"He  lost  Roxane!" 

Julian  was  turning  the  pages.  "  Remember  the 
ending  ?  " 

She  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  read  aloud: 

" '  Que    dites-vous  ?    .    .    .    C  est    inutile  ?    .    .    .    Je    le 

sais! 

Mais  on  ne  se  bat  pas  dans  1'espoir  du  succes ! 
Non !  non !  c'  est  bien  plus  beau  lorsque  c'  est  inutile ! 


THELASTJOUST  349 

—  Je  sais  bien  qu'  a  la  fin  vous  me  mettrez  a  has; 
N'  importe :  je  me  bats !  je  me  bats !  je  me  bats ! 
Oui,  vous  m'arrachez  tout,  le  laurier  et  la  rose ! 
Arrachez !  II  y  a  malgre  vous  quelque  chose 
Que  j'  emporte,  et  ce  soir,  quand  j'  entrerai  chez  Dieu, 
Mon  salut  balaiera  largement  le  seuil  bleu, 
Quelque  chose  que  sans  un  plis,  sans  une  tache, 
J'  emporte  malgre  vous,  et  c'est.    .    .    . 

(Roxane)  C'est?    .    .    . 

(Cyrano)    Mon  panache!" 

"His  'panache',"  she  pouted.  "What  did  he 
mean?  I  never  liked  that,  because  I  never  knew  what 
it  could  mean.  You  don't  think  he  cared  most  for 
his  stupid  '  panache  '  ?  —  most  of  all  for  that !  — 
more  than  for  Roxane?" 

"  His  honor,  does  n't  it  mean?  " 

"Oh     ...     But  what  of  that?" 

He  tossed  the  book  on  the  sill  and  caught  her  in  his 
arms,  laughing. 

"  You  would  have  cared  most  for  it  then,  like  Cy- 
rano ?  "  she  said,  " —  more  than  for  me  ?  " 

"Jealous?"  he  mocked,  " — but  you  are  my 
panache! " 

Yet,  though  she  could  hardly  have  told  why,  she 
was  not  satisfied. 

But  when  they  went  into  the  garden,  under  the  fall- 
ing petals  of  apple-blossoms,  enchanted  peace  wrapped 
her  about  once  more.  Cedars  and  lilacs  shut  them 
in  a  magic  ring;  the  world  was  a  thousand  leagues 


350  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

away  —  so  they  believed,  till  it  sent  a  messenger 
through  the  faery  garrison  of  trees. 

It  was  a  little  girl  with  a  close-cropped  head  and 
defiant  eyes  that  examined  Zandrie  with  unwavering 
interest;  Louie  Deming,  from  over  the  way,  Julian 
explained  without  enthusiasm.  "  Got  whooping- 
cough,"  she  announced  joyously.  "  Whooped  twice 
yesterday.  Lots  of  fun.  Don't  have  to  go  to  Sun- 
day-school. Do  anything  I  please." 

But  her  pleasure  at  the  moment  was  to  climb  an 
apple-tree,  from  which  she  fell. 

One  of  her  wrists  was  ominously  swollen,  and 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  that  Zandrie  should 
take  her  home.  And  then,  both  the  Reverend  George 
Deming  and  his  wife  being  out,  she  had  to  stay  with 
the  sobbing  youngster  while  the  only  servant  in  the 
house  went  for  the  doctor;  so  that,  though  she  kissed 
and  soothed,  she  all  but  hated  the  little  breaker  of  the 
morning's  spell.  And  when  she  could  go  back  to  look 
for  it  at  last,  Marjorie  Marshall  was  there  in  its 
place. 

Her  greeting  was  a  pretty,  appealing  little  smile, 
and  out-stretched  hands  which  Zandrie  caught  up  to 
her  lips  in  token  of  understanding  and  forgiveness. 
"  How  is  the  poor  little  sprained  arm?  "  Mrs.  Roswell 
asked.  "  How  nice  of  you  to  stay  with  her.  A  hurt 
child  is  absolutely  more  than  I  can  bear.  Sonnie 
must  inherit  his  mother's  tender-heartedness;  he 
has  n't  smiled  once  since  Louie's  fall." 


THE    LAST    JOUST  351 

And  it  was  true  that  the  gaiety  which,  an  hour  since, 
had  almost  wiped  the  lines  from  his  face,  was  gone, 
though  Zandrie  had  believed  that,  like  her  own  hap- 
piness, it  had  come  to  stay.  A  vague  fear  shot  at 
her  own.  "  Look  at  me,"  she  whispered,  raising  his 
face  by  a  hand  under  his  chain.  "  Louie's  arm  hurt, 
of  course,  but  ...  do  you  think  it  did  n't  hurt 
more  —  what  you  did  to  me  two  years  ago  ?  —  when 
you  sent  me  away?"  She  winced  at  sight  of  the 
lines  that  deepened  about  his  eyes,  but  fear  egged  her 
on.  "  It  was  a  grievous  mistake." 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said. 

"  We  '11  justify  it  somehow." 

"  You  're  generous." 

"  I  can  afford  to  be  ...  now."  She  stood 
beside  him,  looking  down  at  his  bent  head.  "  Now," 
she  repeated,  touching  his  hair. 

When  she  turned,  Mrs.  Roswell  was  stripping  the 
green  from  a  twig  of  cedar,  and  her  hands  were 
trembling.  But  during  dinner,  which  was  brought 
out  to  them,  she  was  so  delightfully  merry  that,  if 
Mrs.  Deming  senior  ever  insisted  that  Marjorie  Mar- 
shall charmed  only  with  her  comeliness  of  body,  it 
must  be  that  she  never  dined  with  her  under  a  May 
sky,  to  an  orchestra  of  orioles  and  bees. 

They  were  not  alone  together  again  —  Zandrie  and 
Julian  —  till  a  shower  had  sent  them  in;  and  then, 
"  Your  mother  's  very  beautiful,"  Zandrie  said. 

He  agreed  with  a  yes  that  sounded  almost  grudg- 


352  ZANDRIE 

ing.     "  So  beautiful,"  he  added  after  a  pause,  "  that 

—  that  it 's  hard  to  believe     .     .     ." 
"Believe  what?" 

"  Something  it 's  right  hard  to  tell  you."  He 
looked  as  though  it  were  hard.  "  But  I  've  got  to, 
since  the  Lyndes  did  n't.  They  must  be  good  friends 
of  mine.  .  .  .  But  now  I  want  to  get  it  over 
and  done  with.  It 's  your  right  to  know  now.  But 
I  'm  sorry.  .  .  .  She  —  my  mother  — " —  he 
gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair  — "  when  all 's  said  and 
done,  she  is  —  my  mother,  and  it 's  hard  to  judge 
her.  Circumstances  were  against  her  too,  instead 
of  ever  helping  —  as  they  helped  me.  I  might  have 
been  much  worse  —  might  have  gone  to  the  devil 
entirely,  maybe,  if  —  if  I  had  n't  been  prevented,  you 
see."  He  flushed  to  his  forehead  and  locked  his 
hands  together.  "  I  '11  tell  you  about  myself  too.  I 

—  I  almost  let  you  come  in,  that  night  at  Mrs.  Bright's 
.     .     .     you!    But  I  had  n't  begun  to  love  you  then. 
.     .     .     But  even  before  loving  you  —  even  in  Paris 
I  used  to  try,  sometimes  with  all  my  might,  to  be 

—  good.     And  when  I  failed  —  when  the  bad  in  me 
won  out  —  I  was  ashamed,  always.     I  want  you  to 
know  that ;  that  I  'd  known  what  it  was  to  be  mortally 
ashamed  —  even  before  you  came.     For  it 's  only  be- 
cause of  that  —  because  I  've  fought  myself  and  been 
ashamed,  that  I  've  any  right  at  all  to  judge  —  her. 
It 's  not  really  worse,  of  course,  for  a  woman  to  be 
bad,  than  for  a  man  —  if  they  both  care  about  good- 


THELASTJOUST  353 

ness  and  honor  enough  to  make  themselves  better. 
If  she  were  honestly  ashamed  ...  if  she  'd  ever 
really  cared  .  .  ." 

Zandrie's  hands  were  clasped  against  her  throat, 
but  only  because  he  was  in  a  distress  from  which  she 
could  see  no  way  to  help  him  yet.  His  words  so  far 
had  meant  little  more  to  her  than  that  he  was  acutely 
unhappy.  "  I  know,"  she  said,  "  that  your  mother 
left  you  when  your  father  died,  and  married;  but — " 

"  I  was  nineteen  when  my  father  died.  She  left 
him  when  I  was  a  baby  —  and  took  me  with  her, 
though  Father  and  the  law  made  her  give  me  back. 
She  left  him  for  another  man." 

"Oh!    .     .     ." 

"  You  understand  .  .  .  You  see  now  why  I 
would  n't  have  her  touch  you,  if  I  could  help  it.  She 
is  ...  not  good." 

"  Because  she  loved  another  man  better  than  her 
husband?  You  don't  mean — " 

"  And  went  to  him  —  left  her  husband,  and  —  and 
never  really — " 

"  You  mean  you  think  that  was  so  very  dreadful?" 
She  had  risen  and  gripped  the  back  of  his  chair. 

He  looked  up  and  then  reached  for  one  of  her 
hands.  "  Dear  heart !  —  it 's  a  shock.  I  should  have 
told  you  better,  but  I  did  n't  know  how.  .  .  .  It's 
hard  to  believe  she  is  n't  what  she  seems.  She  's  so 
beautiful.  But  —  you  understand  now  why  I  never 
spoke  of  her.  She  wrecked  my  father's  life.  Peo- 

23 


354  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


pie  thought  it  hard  of  him  not  to  divorce  her,  but  they 
did  n't  know  ...  It  was  n't  revenge.  He  did  n't 
believe  in  divorce  in  such  a  case;  and  I  think  he  was 
right.  But  anyhow, —  the  only  times  he  spoke  of 
her,  it  was  as  though  she  were  dead.  And  when  she 
came  to  me  .  .  .  she  came  to  my  aunt's  to  see 
me,  after  my  mishap, —  and  I  was  n't  kind.  I 
could  n't  be.  It  seemed  like  disloyalty  to  my  father, 
to  be  good  to  her.  She  spoiled  his  life.  But  she  'd 
always  kept  track  of  me  through  Aunt  Emily,  and 
even  came  again  when  my  aunt  died,  and  cried  —  on 
her  knees ;  —  but  Roswell's  successor  was  living  then, 
so  she  did  n't  need  me.  But  now  she  's  alone  and 
almost  friendless.  Heaven  knows  why  she  wanted  to 
come  back  here  where  people  won't  even  bow  to  her. 
It  was  n't  bravado  exactly,  but  .  .  .  Well,  I 
could  n't  refuse  her,  dear.  And  it  seemed  easy  enough 
till  you  came.  But  now  — " 

"  Oh,  it  was  right  to  let  her  come  back !  .  .  . 
right  and  merciful." 

"  Yes, —  right.  But  you  can  understand  how  I 
feel  about  you  .  .  .  how  it  hurts  to  see  her  touch 
you, —  to  think  what  you  must  suffer  because  of  her, 
if  you  marry  me.  Yet  I  think  you  will  marry  me  — 

She  caught  her  hand  wildly  from  his.  "  Julian ! 
Speak  plainly !  —  simply !  I  can't  see !  Was  that  all 
—  just  to  leave  her  husband  for  the  man  she  loved  ?  " 

His  surprise  answered  her  so  that  she  covered  her 


THELASTJOUST  355 

eyes.  "  And  you  shudder  from  her  still  for  that  ?  — 
just  for  that?" 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"So  dreadful?  .  .  .  because  she  ...  Is 
that  always  so  wicked?  Bad?  She's  a  bad  woman 
just  for  that?  O  no!  —  don't  answer.  I  couldn't 
live."  She  clasped  her  hands  and  bent  till  her  face 
was  hidden  against  his  shoulder.  "  Julian !  Be  mer- 
ciful to  me!  —  me  too!  Don't  send  me  away!" 
She  slipped  to  her  knees.  "  I  came  to  be  saved.  I 
never  loved  any  one  but  you.  He  knew  I  did  n't 
love  him  when  he  married  me.  I  thought  .  .  . 
I  did  n't  know  you  loved  me  still.  I  thought  you 
did  n't,  because  of  that  note  — " 

He  had  gripped  her  shoulder,  pushing  her  away  till 
he  could  see  her  face.  His  own  was  gray.  "  Mar- 
ried?" 

"Ah  Julian!" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Be  merciful!  I  didn't  know  ...  I  could- 
n't stay  with  him." 

"  You  're  married?  " 

"  Only  two  days !  " 

"To  Royce?" 

"  Yes." 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair,  motionless  but  for  a 
twitching  of  the  lips,  till  some  one  knocked  at  the 
door.  "  Get  up,"  he  said,  and  she  obeyed  and  was 


356  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


standing  when  a  servant  entered  with  afternoon  tea. 

"  Mis'  Roswell  say  she 's  comin'  presently,  and 
makes  request  — " —  the  negress  stopped  in  the  act 
of  putting  down  the  tray.  "  Lord'  sake,  Mis'  Julian ! 
looks  like  you  need  somethin'  mo'  powerful  than  tea, 
yo'self." 

"  Ask  Mrs.  Roswell,"  he  said,  "—  tell  her  we  — " 

But  she  herself  was  entering  the  room.  The 
negress  set  the  tray  on  a  table  and  puttered  over  the 
arrangement  of  the  cups,  eyeing  Julian  with  mys- 
terious grimaces  till  her  mistress  stopped  chatting,  to 
dismiss  her. 

But  when  the  servant  was  gone,  Marjorie  Marshall 
chatted  on.  If  she  saw  her  son's  white  face,  by 
which  one  read  a  despair  that  seemed  like  to  throttle 
whatever  remained  of  the  joy  of  life,  or  if  she  saw 
the  misery  of  a  terrified  child,  she  made  no  sign  that 
she  had  seen,  unless  in  her  dismissal  of  the  servant. 
She  invited  Zandrie  to  sit  by  the  table,  and  gave  her 
a  cup  that  Zandrie  had  to  take  with  both  hands.  But 
when  Julian  refused  tea,  "  What 's  the  matter  with 
you  ?  "  she  asked,  " —  have  you  quarreled  already, 
then?" 

He  raised  his  head  slowly,  looking  at  her  as  though 
he  understood  only  the  tone  of  the  question.  "  No." 
And  then,  "  When  you  've  finished  your  tea  please 
leave  us.  Forgive  me.  We  —  have  had  some  bad 
news." 

Mrs.  Roswell  did  not  finish  her  tea;  and  the  rustle 


THELASTJOUST  357 

of  her  skirts  as  she  went  out,  murmured  of  assaulted 
vanity. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  staring  at  the  door  that  his 
mother  had  closed  behind  her. 

Zandrie  shivered.  The  few  feet  of  polished  floor 
between  them  had  become  a  chasm.  She  clung  to 
the  back  of  a  chair  —  not  his.  "  Be  merciful,"  she 
whispered  across  the  chasm. 

"  Why  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  know  —  I  did  n't  know  what  marriage 
was,  until  .  .  ."  Her  voice  trailed  off  into  a 
moan  that  broke  into  a  convulsion  of  sobs.  When 
they  had  quieted  so  that  the  sound  of  his  voice  speak- 
ing her  name  could  reach  her,  she  groped  her  way  to 
him  and  he  took  her  hand.  "  We  must  n't  be  chil- 
dren," he  said,  brushing  tears  from  his  own  cheeks. 
"  We  must  talk  it  over  —  and  understand." 

"  It  was  because  you  did  n't  get  my  note.  I 
thought  you  did  n't  love  me ;  and  France  did.  So 
it  seemed  right  to  marry  him,  till  he  told  me  .  .  ." 
She  drew  her  hand  from  his.  "  Did  your  father  or 
mother  tell  you  —  what  marriage  means?  No  one 
told  me  —  till  we  were  on  the  train,  France  and  I. 
After  the  wedding." 

She  told  him  how  it  had  come  about,  but  brokenly, 
by  degrees. 

"  You  gave  the  note  to  my  mother,"  he  asked, 
" —  unsealed?  "  And  in  the  silence  that  followed  her 
assent,  the  old  lines  of  bodily  pain  grew  sharply  dis- 


358  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

tinct,  and  a  flush  of  savage  anger  swept  over  his  face. 
Zandrie  suddenly  understood,  and  the  ugly  suspicion 
locked  her  own  teeth,  like  his,  against  words  that 
neither  might  speak  in  the  other's  hearing. 

After  she  had  finished  her  story,  she  knelt  with  her 
hands  clasped  on  the  arm  of  his  chair;  but  he  neither 
looked  at  her  nor  touched  her. 

"  I  can  save  your  honor,"  he  said  at  last.  "  But 
you  must  help.  .  .  .  You  '11  go  back  to  the 
Lyndes  first." 

"Never  that!" 

"  Until  you  and  —  your  husband  — •  can  arrange 
about  your  future." 

"And  then?" 

"  Then  God  help  us  all." 

"There  is  divorce,"  she  whispered. 

"  Divorce.  Yes ;  my  mother  wanted  divorce.  My 
mother!  ...  I  don't  know  the  law  about  it,  but 
.  .  .  You!  .  .  .  O  my  God!"  His  voice 
fell,  and  terror  tied  her  own.  "  I  can  save  your 
honor,"  he  said  again.  "  My  right  to  say  I  love  you 
is  gone,  but  I  can  prove  it  that  way  at  least." 

"  You  care  more  for  honor  than  for  me." 

"  They  're  the  same,  are  n't  they?  " 

After  a  pause,  "If  they  're  not,"  she  said,  "  is  poor 
honor  worth  the  saving?" 

Incredulous  questioning  came  to  his  eyes.  "  Are 
you  a  child  still,  then?  I  believe  in  you  so  much  that 
.  .  .  I  believe  you  're  a  child." 


THELASTJOUST  359 

•  "No!     .     .     .     no." 

"  That  you  don't  understand  what  you  're  saying." 

"  I  only  understand  that  I  want  you  .  .  .  you. 
To  stay  with  you !  "  Her  hands  shot  out  to  him,  but 
although  he  snatched  them,  he  held  her  off.  After  a 
pause  in  which  her  eyes  fell  before  the  searching  in 
his,  "  Try  to  understand,"  he  said,  "  what  your  stay- 
ing would  mean." 

"Yes     .     .     .     Oyes!     That 's  why  I  came." 

"  Try  to  understand.  It  would  be  wrong  —  a  great 
wrong  —  to  yourself  as  well  as  others." 

"  France  is  the  only  one.  And  he  married  me, 
knowing  I  thought  you  did  n't  love  me, —  and  he  knew 
you  did.  My  heart  is  dead  when  it  thinks  of  him. 
.  .  .  And  I  don't  care  for  my  broken  vow.  I 
made  it  in  the  dark.  .  .  .  Ah  Julian !  —  you 
can't  care  about  that!  Why  should  you  care  about 
such  things?  " 

"Your  honor?     .     .     ." 

"  About  honor  and  —  and  wrong.  Oh,  I  used  to 
care  about  such  things  once  .  .  .  sometimes,  but 
not  much,  and  only  for  your  sake  —  never  for  those 
things  in  themselves.  I  told  you  once,  I  'd  be  wicked 
without  you.  But  with  you  ...  by  staying 
with  you  I  may  be  good  at  last ;  who  knows  ?  You  're 
all  the  conscience  I  ever  had,  I  think.  .  .  .  And 
I  must  stay." 

He  turned  his  face  away  and  did  not  speak  for  a 
minute  or  two.  "My  mother — "  he  began,  but  his 


360  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


voice  broke  so  that  he  stopped  again.  Then,  "  Do 
you  think  my  mother  is  happy?  .  .  .  If  I  let 
you  stay.  ...  If  you  stayed,  and  understood 
what  your  staying  meant  —  as  you  would  at  last  — 
you  'd  understand  this  too, —  that  I  'd  wronged  you 
beyond  any  reparation.  It  could  n't  be  undone.  And 
you  'd  ask  how  I  had  the  heart  to  rob  you  of  your 
last  chance  for  happiness  ...  to  steal  your 
honor.  Yes;  and  your  faith  in  me  would  be  gone, 
and  you  'd  loathe  me  at  last.  And  so  ...  O 
my  God!  After  last  night!  After  last  night 
.  .  ."  He  caught  her  hands  up  against  his  breast 
and  bent  forward  suddenly  with  closed  eyes,  shaken 
as  though  by  bodily  anguish.  The  blow  of  her  con- 
fession had  fallen  before  he  could  arm  himself  as  he 
had  had  time  to  do  when  their  wills  met  two  years 
before;  and  by  that  last  cry  she  knew  it,  and  her 
terror  fell  away. 

"Julian!  Julian!  .  .  .  Listen,  Julian.  You 
sent  me  away  before,  and  it  was  a  grievous  mistake. 
We  '11  justify  it  yet,  but  it  was  a  terrible  mistake." 
"  My  fault,"  he  sobbed.  "  My  fault.  My  fault." 
"  And  you  were  so  sure.  ...  Do  you  dare  be 
sure  again?  .  .  .  Oh,  if  there's  a  God  that 
cares !  ...  he  made  us  for  one  another.  He  '11 
see  that  we  do  no  harm  —  you  and  I.  What  wrong 
that  we  live  under  one  roof?  —  in  one  garden  —  for 
each  other's  happiness  ?  —  where  no  one  can  see  ? 
.  .  .  Feel  me,  Julian !  I  'm  here !  —  here !  God 


THELASTJOUST  361 

showed  me  the  way.  But  what  does  it  matter  — 
the  way  we  came?  you  said.  O  I  was  frightened! 
But  see !  I  have  you,  touch  you,  feel  your  heartbeats, 
know  your  voice  will  feed  my  ears  when  they  starve. 
And  I  '11  answer  when  you  call.  Think !  —  how  you 
called  me  in  the  echoing,  empty  nights,  and  there  was 
no  answer.  Think  how  you  were  alone  with  the  mis- 
ery of  your  own  making  and  the  tears  you  were 
ashamed  of  because  you  were  a  man.  They  scorched 
your  eyelids  and  the  sobs  hurt.  O  beloved,  how 
they  hurt,  body  and  soul !  You  'd  have  sold  your  soul 
for  a  touch  of  Zandrie's  hand.  You  groped  in  the  dark 
and  there  was  no  comfort.  .  .  .  And  then  of  a 
sudden  —  this!  Zandrie's  head  on  your  breast,  and 
her  arms  .  .  .  so ! " 

The  pain  of  his  clasp  was  ecstacy  wherein  she 
would  fain  have  stayed;  but  even  his  voice  was  slip- 
ping from  her,  and  the  darkness  with  which  she 
fought  was  stronger  than  she. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE    WHITE    PLUME 

She  believed  that  she  had  won.  She  believed  it 
remembering  the  clasp  of  his  arms  in  which  she  had 
fainted,  but,  better  still,  the  look  in  his  eyes  when  hers 
had  opened  and  found  him  by  the  couch  where  she 
had  been  laid,  leaning  towards  her  across  an  arm 
of  his  chair.  For  there  was  no  accusation  in  that 
look;  no  questioning  nor  incredulous  wonder,  nor 
high  will;  but  only  concern  and  yearning  tenderness 
that  changed  through  the  gladness  of  relief  to  the 
electric  joy  of  answered  passion.  That  was  the  last 
she  had  seen,  because  other  persons  had  come  be- 
tween, one  holding  wine  to  her  lips,  another  fanning, 
while  a  voice  that  for  all  its  greatness  seemed  to  come 
from  afar  over  the  sound  of  rushing  waters,  issued 
commands.  "No,  young  woman;  you  don't  sit  up 
yet,  or  there  '11  be  another  scene."  The  order  was 
superfluous  with  Dr.  Summers's  hand  against  her 
shoulder.  Then  a  form  still  more  massive  than  the 
old  doctor's  lifted  her  in  its  arms,  its  forehead  crim- 
son and  perspiring,  though  not  with  the  physical  diffi- 
culties of  its  task;  for  it  was  Carter. 

362 


THE   WHITE    PLUME  363 

She  lay  on  the  four-post  bed  now  in  the  twilight,  as 
happy,  almost,  as  when  she  woke  that  morning  in  the 
belief  that  Julian  would  let  her  stay.  For  she  be- 
lieved it  still.  She  believed  that  in  their  struggle  she 
had  prevailed,  so  working  upon  his  pity  as  well  as  pas- 
sion, that  he  could  not  let  her  go.  If  he  grieved  for 
the  pain  of  a  child  whom  he  loved  not  at  all,  strange 
if  he  had  no  pity  for  Zandrie's  tears! 

She  had  said  when  they  talked  of  honor  and  right, 
that  for  "  those  things  in  themselves  "  she  had  little 
concern;  that  he  was  her  only  conscience.  And  per- 
haps it  was  true;  for  in  all  her  life  her  motives  were 
made  of  loves  and  hates.  Love  of  her  volatile,  in- 
dulgent father,  love  of  the  Virgin,  and  of  Sister  Isi- 
dore and  Sister  Andrea;  love  of  the  Julian  of  her 
dreams, —  they  had  all  served  as  the  reasons  for  her 
acts.  The  more  ardent  the  love,  the  more  possible 
to  choose  a  difficult  course  that  she  thought  would 
be  the  choice  of  her  beloved.  So  in  her  ethical  deci- 
sions of  the  last  two  years,  '  right '  meant  only  what 
she  believed  Julian  wrould  approve  if  he  knew,  or 
else  what  would  be  for  his  welfare.  Other  *  right ' 
had  no  meaning,  no  claim  on  her  attention.  She  un- 
derstood it  not  at  all,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
gray-clad  abstractions  never  got  beyond  the  ante- 
chamber of  her  thought.  What  chance  had  they, 
sober  Puritans,  to  win  notice  at  a  court  where  most 
went  clad  in  the  hues  of  the  passion-flower? 

But  within  a  few  hours,  even  the  thought  of  what 


364  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


Julian  himself  called  '  wrong '  had  grown  so  dull  be- 
side the  rainbow-hued  giant  of  joy  in  his  bodily  near- 
ness —  even  that  thought  could  win  small  notice  now. 

In  spite  of  Dr.  Summers's  command  to  go  to  sleep, 
she  had  not  undressed,  expecting  that  the  curious 
weakness  which  followed  her  still  more  unaccountable 
fainting  would  leave  her  soon  so  that  she  might  go 
down  stairs  to  Julian.  For  with  all  her  belief  in  her 
ultimate  victory,  she  knew  that  only  the  spell  of  her 
bodily  presence  could  win  over  those  well-drilled 
ranks  of  thought  and  feeling  which  she  saw  in  him 
without  comprehension  but  with  none  the  less  dread. 
Every  moment  that  he  was  alone  with  them  held 
danger  for  her.  Yet  the  stars  had  begun  to  swim 
out  of  the  dusk,  and  she  still  lay  in  a  tingling 
weakness  from  which  she  had  not  the  will  to  free 
herself. 

She  had  lain  in  the  starlight  but  half  an  hour,  she 
thought,  when  the  knob  of  her  door  was  quietly 
turned.  "  I  am  awake,"  she  said,  seeing  the  silhouette 
of  Julian's  mother  against  the  light  of  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Roswell  shut  the  door  and  crossed  the  room 
to  an  open  window,  where  she  stood  twisting  a  corner 
of  the  curtain  for  several  minutes  before  she  spoke. 
Marjorie  Marshall  could  speak  to  the  point,  when  she 
chose.  "  He  says  he  has  lost  you  through  me.  Is  it 
true?" 

"  Because  of  the  note  you  — " 

"Is  it  true?"  she  interrupted.     "You're  married 


THE   WHITE    PLUME  365 

already, —  but  is  it  true  that  he  has  lost  you?  "  She 
came  to  the  bed  and  leaned  over  so  close  that  Zandrie 
felt  her  breath.  "  He  tried  to  explain  that  you  were 
so  immeasurably  innocent.  But  why  did  you  come, 
if  you  're  going  back?  Are  you  going  back?" 

Zandrie's  hands  shot  out  to  her.  "  Oh,  it  was  cruel! 
.  .  .  whether  you  only  lost  it,  or  —  the  other  way. 
Surely  .  .  .  surely  that  was  enough.  Remem- 
ber your  own  unhappiness  and  be  kind  at  last !  Don't 
take  part  against  me.  How  could  my  staying  cut  off 
the  love  he  gives  you  already?  How  could  it,  when 
he  has  loved  me  all  along?  I  shan't  come  between 
him  and  you." 

Mrs.  Roswell  pulled  away  from  the  supplicating 
hands  with  a  short,  low  laugh.  "  I  'd  like  —  But 
he  '11  know  soon  enough  —  if  he  does  n't  know  it  al- 
ready —  that  you  're  not  so  different  from  .  .  . 
most  of  us.  Oh,  but  I  wish  you  joy  of  him  when  he 
knows ! "  After  a  pause,  "  He  was  like  his  father 
to-night.  I  've  seen  it  before ;  but  to-night  I  could 
hate  him.  ...  I  wish  I  could!  .  .  .  His 
father  could  n't  have  said  such  things.  He  could  n't 
kill  —  like  Julian.  Oh!  .  .  ."  A  sob  shook  her 
from  head  to  foot. 

Zandrie  was  at  her  side,  her  arms  about  her. 
"  He  '11  forgive  you  if  —  if  you  '11  be  my  friend.  It 's 
all  past  —  the  trouble  about  the  note.  All  trouble 
past !  We  '11  forget  everything  but  the  happiness  to 
come." 


366  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


The  other  thrust  her  away.  "  What  makes  you 
think  you  can  stay  ?  —  that  he  '11  let  you  stay  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  will" 

"Why?" 

"I  think  he  can't  let  me  go." 

"You  little  fool!  ...  You  little  fool! 
.  .  .  And  if  you  did  succeed  in  the  end  —  Well, 
we  'd  have  each  other  to  fall  back  on  then  —  you  and 
I !  When  he  chose  to  speak  to  you  as  he  spoke  to  me 
this  evening  —  to  insult  you  .  .  .  you  'd  have 
my  sympathy  at  least.  Oh,  but  wait!  ...  If 
he  let  you  stay  —  if  he  couldn't  let  you  go  .  .  ." 
She  caught  her  breath  and,  after  a  pause,  laughed 
again  the  short,  low  laugh.  Then  she  seized  Zan- 
drie's  arm  in  a  grip  that  hurt.  "  Zandrie !  —  stay ! 
.  .  .  stay!  Make  him  keep  you,  somehow.  Make 
him!  ...  I  love  him  so!  I  want  more  than 
just  his  little,  indulgent  love.  Don't  you  see?  We  'd 
be  equals  —  we  three  —  if  his  own  honor  .  .  . 
Oh,  his  precious  honor !  Why,  he  was  n't  born  for 
a  saint  any  more  than  the  rest  of  us, —  not  much ! 
He  said  as  much  himself,  this  very  night.  But  he 
believes  —  some  stuff  about  having  won  back  what- 
ever he  once  lost.  Too  bad  women  can't  do  that  way ! 
.  .  .  Zandrie !  —  you.  understand !  I  '11  help  you 
if  you  stay.  And  I  '11  make  amends, —  you  '11  see." 

Yes;  Zandrie  understood.  Julian's  mother  was 
right  in  that,  though  she  could  hardly  guess  how  vital, 
new,  and  illuminating  that  understanding  was.  The 


THE    WHITE    PLUME  367 

flash  of  it  stunned  her  senses  so  that  she  heard  noth- 
ing more  of  what  the  other  said. 

At  first  it  was  scarcely  more  than  the  slimy  ugliness 
suddenly  uncovered  to  her  eyes,  that  sickened  her; 
till  the  full  length  of  its  meaning  and  implications 
had  crawled  by  inches  into  her  understanding;  and 
when  it  was  all  there,  she  fell  on  her  knees  and  wept 
for  loathing  and  shame. 

"  Julian !  "  she  moaned  later.  "  Forgive !  .  .  . 
forgive." 

Out  of  the  sickness  of  repulsion  from  the  poison- 
ous thing  she  had  seen,  she  passed  to  a  passion  of 
pity  that  its  coils  should  lie  where  Julian  must  see  them 
too,  even  in  that  path  of  his  life  which  should  have 
been  most  fair;  and  from  compassion  she  rose  into  a 
clear,  still  air  where  all  things  that  concerned  herself 
and  him  stood  sharply  outlined  in  the  burning  light. 
And  first,  she  saw  herself  as  a  beggar  with  bandaged 
eyes,  and  hands  stretched  out  for  none  but  their  own 
needs.  Unbelievable  blindness,  that  had  shut  out  the 
most  salient  —  the  supremely  significant  fact  of  all  — 
that  Julian's  honor  was  bound  with  hers!  She  knew 
enough  now  of  the  world  to  know  that.  Yet  till  this 
hour  the  knowledge  had  lain  in  some  corner  of  her 
mind,  drugged,  dormant,  unnoticed,  ineffective. 

In  all  his  pleading  for  her  honor,  he  had  not  once 
plead  for  his  own  —  the  plume  whose  whiteness  he  re- 
joiced, like  Cyrano,  to  carry  with  him  from  the  ruin 
of  his  life  — "  what  Cyrano  cared  most  for  after 


368  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 

all,"  he  had  said ;  and  he  could  not  have  said  it  unless 
knowing  the  gladness  of  that  pride.  Even  his  mother 
could  know  that  he  had  that!  And  stripped  of  his 
white  plume,  what  had  he  left?  What  had  she  — 
Zandrie  —  to  give  in  its  place,  but  knowledge  that  the 
woman  he  loved  was  content  to  despoil  him?  And 
scarcely  less  bitter  for  him  would  be  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  less  than  he  had  thought;  one  whom 
other  women  had  a  right  to  insult,  if  they  did  not 
choose  rather  to  pass  her  by  in  silence.  Sublime, 
mistaken  generosity!  .  .  .  mistaken  as  the  gen- 
erosity that  had  refused  the  first  gift  of  herself. 

She  forgot  now  that  she  had  believed  he  was  going 
to  let  her  stay;  or  if  the  thought  entered,  it  was  shorn 
of  significance  by  the  great  company  into  which  it 
strayed.  So  too  his  mother's  half-charges,  and  his 
own  fragmentary  confession  that  had  had  little  mean- 
ing for  her  even  while  he  spoke.  But  the  incident 
of  the  breakfast  at  Mrs.  Bright's  took  meaning  sud- 
denly; and  because  its  insult  reached  through  herself 
to  him,  she  writhed.  But  only  because  it  reached  to 
him;  for  personal  pride,  that  had  leapt  up  after  the 
lightning-bolt  by  which  she  saw  another's  soiled  soul 
and  knew  her  own  to  be  white  by  contrast  —  that 
pride  had  soon  burnt  out.  In  this,  the  supreme  hour 
of  her  life,  self  as  well  as  self's  desires  sank  molten  in 
the  blaze  of  her  new  vision. 

And  so,  when  she  rose  to  go  in  the  spreading  dawn, 
the  will  to  leave  him  to  his  white  plume  had  grown 


THE    WHITE    PLUME  369 

up  knowing  nothing  of  conflict,  as  a  flower  in  the 
sun. 

She  stole  on  tiptoe  to  where  he  lay  asleep.  His 
left  arm,  flung  back  over  his  head,  disordered  his  hair, 
which  in  the  wan  light  looked  gray,  so  that  she  had  to 
bend  close  to  make  sure  that  it  was  not.  But  his  face 
was  gray,  except  for  his  lips  and  the  shadows  below 
his  eyes.  She  studied  it  line  by  line,  long,  and  as  one 
who  has  the  right;  and  at  last  she  smoothed  the  hair 
back  from  his  forehead.  When  he  opened  his  eyes, 
she  knelt  by  him.  "  Remember,"  she  said,  "  that  I 
went  of  my  own  will  —  remember  that !  —  because  I 
worshipped  you.  I  'm  going  out  into  the  darkness. 
I  don't  know  where  it  leads,  but  if  there  is  light,  it 
will  be  somehow  where  you  are.  It  has  always  been 
so.  ...  Julian  —  say  my  name." 

He  said  it,  but  she  saw  that  he  scarcely  compre- 
hended yet.  "  Kiss  me,"  she  said.  "  It  can  do  no 
harm.  I  'm  strong  now." 

When  she  knelt  powerless  against  the  strength  of 
his  arms,  "  I  'm  faint,"  she  whispered  at  last ;  and  at 
that  his  clasp  relaxed  a  little,  so  that  she  could  slip 
suddenly  down  and  out  of  reach. 

He  called  her  name  once  and  again,  and  the  last 
time  it  was  like  a  cry,  but  she  did  not  answer,  except 
to  turn  on  the  threshold  for  a  final  look. 

How  long  she  had  sat  in  the  waiting  room  of  the 
station,  she  neither  knew  nor  cared,  nor  whether  trains 

24 


370  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


had  come  or  gone;  for  where  should  she -go  after  all 
on  any  train?     For  what  was  she  waiting? 

After  the  breathless  rush  of  resolve  that  had  caught 
her  up  out  of  reach  of  clutching  desires  had  dropped 
her  back  into  the  flesh;  after  the  exaltation  was  gone 
and  a  mortal  weariness  in  its  place,  from  which,  look- 
ing out  on  her  life,  she  saw  it  barren  even  of  hope,  a 
wilderness  without  a  pillar  of  cloud,  wherein  she  could 
see  no  foothold  for  herself, —  then  she  had  asked  for 
what  was  she  waiting?  What  was  there  in  all  the 
darkness  ahead  to  wait  for?  For,  looking  back,  she 
saw  that  in  the  two  years  of  her  passion  and  privation 
of  what  she  called  life  itself,  she  had  lived  on  hope 
and  the  will  to  pay  a  debt;  and  at  the  last,  she  was 
Julian's  debtor  no  longer.  She  saw  that  too;  that 
her  own  sacrifice  had  cleared  the  score.  Unless 
She  sat  up  suddenly.  Unless  he  was  her 
debtor  now.  For  after  all,  had  she  not  left  him  with- 
out proof  that  he  had  refused  to  keep  her?  No 
longer  ago  than  last  night  she  had  believed  that  he 
would;  that  she  had  prevailed;  which  would  have 
meant  that  she  was  stronger  at  last  than  he  whom  she 
had  called  her  conscience.  He  had  been  more  than 
her  conscience,  however:  she  saw  that  too  —  that  he 
had  been  the  only  real  god  of  her  worship. 

When  she  had  left  him,  she  had  been  at  pains  to  tell 
him  that  she  went  of  her  own  accord.  She  had  been 
quite  sure  of  course  that  he  would  have  compelled  her 
to  go,  had  she  tried  to  stay ;  but  she  had  wished  him  to 


THE    WHITE    PLUME  371 

know  that  she  went  of  her  own  will,  because  she 
thought  that  the  knowledge  would  please  him.  Yet 
he  had  tried  to  call  her  back.  Was  it  possible  that  at 
last  he  prized  her  living  presence  above  the  plume 
whose  whiteness  she  had  been  at  such  pains  to  help 
him  save?  Would  he  take  her  back? 

Yet  she  did  not  start  up  to  find  out.  That  was  the 
curious  fact,  whose  significance  yet  found  no  place 
among  her  jostling  thoughts, —  the  fact  that  although 
her  heart  beat  wildly,  it  was  not  with  hope,  but  a 
new,  strange  fear  lest  she  might  have  her  heart's  desire 
after  all;  fear  lest  the  great  act  of  her  life  might  be  a 
mocking  act  of  blindness  by  proving  Julian  to  be  less 
than  she  had  believed. 

"Not  that!"  she  whispered.  "Never  that!" 
And  she  pleaded  with  her  doubt,  saying  that  he  had 
loved  honor  and  "  goodness  "  so  well  that  she  had 
asked  why.  Had  he  answered?  She  could  not  re- 
member; but  it  seemed  now  that  when  she  had  stood 
on  her  pinnacle  that  morning,  seeing  things  not 
glimpsed  before,  the  light  had  streamed  from  some 
near  source  of  ecstacy.  The  throne  of  God?  She 
had  not  looked  to  see,  content  with  the  new  bliss  of  the 
light  itself. 

God!  .  .  .  Julian  had  known  where  to  find 
Him  perhaps,  for  he  had  called  out  of  his  grief  on 
God's  name.  Had  the  nuns  known  where  ?  In  those 
days  she  had  not  needed  to  ask  them ;  and  she  had  not 
asked  Julian,  because  he  himself  had  filled  all  her  need. 


372  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


If  he  took  her  back,  would  he  fill  it  still?  Compared 
with  her  present  need,  all  past  hunger  of  soul  was  a 
shrunken  trifle.  Yet  if  he  took  her  back,  loving  her 
more  than  what  he  himself  called  goodness  —  if  he 
took  her  back  so,  would  he  satisfy  still? 

Poor,  puzzled  child!  The  question  itself  was  the 
core  of  her  despair;  but  if  it  was  also,  by  that  same 
fact,  the  birth  of  her  soul,  how  was  she  to  know? 
The  strain  of  the  unhappy  months  had  done  its  work 
on  her  body  at  last,  and  from  the  stress  of  troubling 
questions  she  slipped  into  unconsciousness,  fainting 
quietly  there  where  she  had  sat  for  two  hours  with 
her  hands  clasped  under  her  chin. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE   GARDEN   OF  LOST  DELIGHT 

One  day  somebody  woke  from  a  sleep  full  of 
dreams,  and  seeing  shadows  on  the  wall,  did  not  know 
what  they  were.  A  confused  something  was  in  the 
air.  It  was  sound;  but  the  listener  could  not  re- 
member what  sound  was, —  neither  its  name,  nor 
how  it  differed  from  shadow.  At  the  next  awaken- 
ing, however,  a  tiny  thrill  of  pleasure  ran  through 
the  tired  brain  as  it  knew  and  named  both  shadows 
and  sound.  But  what  —  who  —  was  the  somebody 
who  had  waked  and  now  lay  still,  yet  struggling 
—  oh,  struggling  very  hard  with  something?  That 
was  harder  to  tell.  But  when  the  dreamer  woke 
for  the  third  time,  the  awakening  brought  the 
peace  of  a  struggle  ended;  and  if  questions  came, 
their  answers  often  slipped  in  at  their  side,  so  that 
it  became  a  game  to  watch  them.  "  Who  am  I  ?  " 
was  one  of  the  questions  at  last;  and  the  answer 
danced  to  meet  it,  "  I  am  Zandrie." 

Later  she  seemed  to  lie  on  a  beach,  under  a  sun  that 
comforted,  near  water  that  made  no  more  sound  on 
the  sand  than  slow  breathing ;  and  on  the  water  floated 
bits  of  a  something  half  known,  which,  by  stretching 

25  373 


374  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


out  her  hand,  she  could  make  her  own;  but  if  she  did 
that,  the  sun  might  burn  and  the  waves  threaten,  for 
the  floating  pieces  were  bits  of  a  past.  For  several 
days  she  was  content  to  let  them  stay  there;  but  the 
temptation  to  reach  for  them  grew  till  it  had  power 
to  trouble  her.  And  it  was  then,  when  she  needed 
a  friend,  that  one  came.  Her  second-best  friend,  she 
called  Mrs.  George  Deming  in  after  days. 

It  was  she  who  told  Zandrie  that  she  was  in  a 
hospital,  to  which  she  had  been  brought  from  the 
station  six  weeks  ago.  "  I  think  I  remember,"  said 
Zandrie,  daring  to  reach  for  one  of  the  floating  bits, 
now  that  some  one  was  near  to  save  her  if  the  waves 
threatened;  for  she  felt  already  that  her  second-best 
friend  was  good  at  saving. 

No  one  else  but  the  nurse  and  doctor  came  to  see 
her ;  though  the  Lyndes  had  written,  Mrs.  George  said, 
and  would  come  at  a  day's  notice  if  .  .  .  But 
Zandrie  whispered  no. 

A  week  later  she  had  made  many  of  the  floating  bits 
her  own;  yet  for  some  reason  the  waves  had  not 
caught  her.  Was  it  possible  that  she  was  going  to 
be  safe  from  the  past  forever?  When  Gray  Deming 
was  by,  she  almost  believed  so.  "  Why  are  you  so 
good  to  me  ?  "  she  asked  at  last ;  to  which  Gray  an- 
swered, "  At  first  because  Julian  asked  me  to,  and  be- 
cause you  were  so  nice  to  Louie ;  but  now  —  well, 
because  —  "  But  Zandrie  did  not  hear  the  rest,  be- 


GARDEN    OF    LOST    DELIGHT      375 

cause  that  mention  of  Julian  was  the  first,  and  she  had 
known  Gray  two  weeks  now. 

"  He  thought  it  would  be  so  dreadful,"  Gray  went 
on,  "  not  to  have  a  friend  here  when  you  woke  up,  and 
your  friend  Dr.  Royce  agreed.  And  so  I  came." 

Zandrie  turned  her  face  to  the  wall.  "Where  is 
he?" 

"  In  Boston." 

"Julian?" 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Why,  he's  left  home  — all  of 
them  —  Carter  and  Mrs.  Roswell  and  the  twins. 
They  've  gone  to  the  Italian  Lakes." 

"  When  will  he  come  back?  " 

"  Not  for  a  long  time,  I  'm  afraid.  Zandrie  dear, 
—  you  don't  mind  my  knowing  about  it  all?  I  just 
had  to,  you  see,  if  I  was  to  be  any  use  at  all." 

But  Zandrie  did  not  mind.     "  Why  did  he  go?  " 

To  make  it  easier  for  everybody,  Gray  said ;  he  had 
gone  as  soon  as  he  knew  she  was  getting  well.  "  He 
went  because  he  's  a  right  good  man.  In  fact,  George 
and  I  think  he  's  one  of  the  best  we  know."  And  a 
minute  later  she  added,  "  And  we  think  —  and  Julian 
thinks  —  your  friend  Dr.  Royce  is  a  right  good  man 
too.  We  got  to  know  him  while  he  was  here, —  while 
you  were  sick." 

But  Zandrie  hardly  heard  that  either,  being  con- 
cerned only  with  the  news  that  Julian  had  justified 
her  faith;  that  he  was  "  good  "  beyond  a  doubt. 


376  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


But  the  next  day  the  past  had  all  come  back;  and 
such  a  dreariness  fell  upon  her,  that  she  begged  to  be 
taken  to  the  children's  ward.  The  doctor  refused, 
but  a  small  boy  was  brought  to  her,  to  whom  she  told 
half-believed  old  tales  of  saints  till  he  forgot  about  his 
worthless  little  legs.  And  after  that,  he  and  one  or 
two  others  came  daily  for  "  more,"  till  she  left  the 
hospital  and  went  to  the  George  Demings'. 

Gray  had  told  her  already  that  Julian  was  planning 
not  to  come  back  at  all,  but  at  sight  of  the  closed 
blinds  opposite,  the  full,  intolerable  meaning  of  his  ab- 
sence swept  upon  her  for  the  first  time.  Forgetting 
all  but  the  bitterness  of  bereavement,  she  asked  aloud, 
"Why  did  he  go?" 

Gray,  who  was  picking  marigolds  in  her  front  yard, 
dropped  them  in  dismay.  "  But  dear!  —  I  thought 
you  understood." 

"  Because  he  was  good.  O  yes !  But  Gray,  Gray ! 
Who  could  count  such  a  marriage  as  France's  and 
mine,  forever?  —  a  service  I  didn't  understand,  or 
I  'd  never  have  made  its  promises  ?  Never !  And  ' 
who  dares  say  such  promises  shall  bind  Julian  and  me 
—  and  France  himself  —  to  ruin  forever?  God  him- 
self would  laugh  at  a  man  who  said  that." 

Gray  bent  to  pick  up  the  marigolds  she  had  dropped. 
"  France  hopes  to  win  you  yet." 

"And  that's  why  Julian  is  gone!  .  .  .  But 
if  France  can't  win  me?  " 

Gray  would  not  meet  her  eyes.     "  He  knew  France 


GARDEN    OF   LOST    DELIGHT       377 

did  n't  want  to  give  up  trying  to  win  you,  and  had  the 
right  to  try.  He  thinks  your  first  duty  now  is  to 
France.  And  anyway, —  on  your  own  account  —  he 
said  he  would  n't  marry  you  even  if  France  wanted 
to  give  you  up." 

"France  could  cancel  our  marriage,  then!  —  if  he 
wanted.  It  would  be  a  wicked  law,  that  did  n't  let  us. 
But  why  —  but  why  should  n't  Julian  marry  me  then  ? 
.  .  .  The  foolish  old  reason?  But  that  was  gone, 
when  I  came  back  to  him  and  he  did  n't  know  about 
France.  He  was  going  to  marry  me  right  off!  He 
saw  aright  at  last." 

"  George  thinks  he  did  right  to  go,"  said  Gray. 
"  And  George  himself  is  almost  always  right." 

"  Not  as  right  as  Julian !  —  except  when  Julian's 
blind.  He  can  be  so  blind!  Yet  always  good.  It 
was  good  of  him  to  go.  Perhaps  right  too.  Yes  — 
to  go  till  the  marriage  is  cancelled,  maybe.  But  he  's 
wrong  —  wrong  —  to  say  my  first  duty  's  to  France, 
because  of  such  a  marriage." 

"France  said  he  would  give  you  up,  if  Julian  and 
you  both  wanted  it.  But  Julian  said  no ;  and  then  he 
went.  .  .  .  Oh,  he  was  sure  you  'd  do  the  right, 
in  any  case ;  and  he  just  went,  to  make  it  easier  —  " 

"For  France  to  do  the  wrong.  For  France,  who 
hates  us  both.  He  must  hate  me,  to  try  to  keep  Julian 
from  me  forever.  He  tried  to  marry  me,  knowing 
that  Julian  and  I  ...  Live  with  France? 
Does  Julian  think  that  of  me  ?  —  that  I  'd  live  with  a 


378  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


man  I  don't  love?  —  that  I'd  marry  France  really? 
I  '11  never  even  see  him  again.     I  '11  not  be  called  by 
his  name :  I  '11  be  Zandrie  Donallon,  whether  the  law 
allows  it  or  not.     But  it  could  n't  mind ! 
Gray,  would  you  have  me  live  with  France?  " 

Then  Gray  looked  her  in  the  eyes,  and  answered 
"  No." 

"  But  Julian  would  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  is  there  a 
woman  in  the  world  who  can  understand?" 

"  He  only  wanted  what  he  thought  would  be  best 
for  you  in  the  end." 

"  He  can't  be  so  blind,  and  love  me." 

"  He  loves  you  so  much  that  he  has  all  faith  in  you, 
—  believes  you  're  as  strong  as  he.  And  he  's  very 
wonderful  and  strong  himself.  And  yet,  when  he 
was  talking  with  George,  the  night  before  he  left, 
George  says  the  tears  —  " 

"Don't!"  Zandrie  interrupted  sharply;  and  then, 
"  But  I  'm  glad  if  it  hurt  him  to  be  so  strong !  He 
did  n't  need  me,  so  he  left  me  to  starve.  O  wonder- 
ful, to  be  as  strong  as  that !  I  hate  him  too !  I  hate 
him  too ! "  And  from  her  wild  words  against  him, 
she  fled  across  the  street  to  the  empty  garden. 

She  named  it  The  Garden  of  Lost  Delight.  Long 
ago,  for  an  hour,  she  had  called  it  Paradise.  It 
seemed  fitting  that  it  should  be  empty,  after  all,  for 
who  might  be  gardeners  of  Paradise? 

On  the  ground  where  she  had  knelt  beside  him,  she 
lay  now  on  her  face,  shaken  by  desire  for  his  living 


GARDEN    OF   LOST    DELIGHT     379 

presence,  at  war  with  pride  in  him  for  having  justified 
her  faith,  and  anger  because,  for  all  the  pride,  she 
could  yet  not  quite  understand  him.  She  called  him 
blind,  and  many  a  harder  name.  She  would  tear  the 
love  of  him  out,  she  said,  and  love  France  instead. 
But  while  saying  it,  the  thought  came,  that  if  Royce 
were  not  living,  Julian  wrould  surely  come  back;  so, 
"  I  wish  France  would  die !  "  she  sobbed.  And  then 
she  saw  that  if  she  tried  to  live  with  France,  the  wish 
would  come  again,  and  that  the  very  will  —  the  need 
of  willing  —  to  shut  it  out,  would  poison  her  peace. 
And  besides,  how  could  she  love  him,  remembering 
the  part  that  the  selfishness  of  what  he  called  his  own 
love,  had  played  in  her  undoing  ?  It  was  then  that  she 
cried  aloud  "  Speak  to  me,  Julian !  "  And  when  there 
was  no  answer,  she  whispered  "Then  I  choose  not  to 
live." 

But  it  was  the  last  time  that  she  made  that  choice, 
and  Julian's  letter,  which  she  found  awaiting  her 
across  the  street,  she  said  afterwards  was  the  reason 
why. 

It  was  written  at  Bellagio,  on  July  eleventh. 

"  My  BEST  FRIEND  : 

"  If  I  did  wrong  to  give  you  up  two  years  ago,  I  think  — 
yes,  I  know  —  that  you  forgive  me  because  I  thought  it  was 
for  the  best.  It  seemed  so  wrong  for  me  to  marry  any  one 
—  you  of  all  people !  And  even  now  I  'd  hate  to  imagine 
you  the  wife  of  a  man  who  could  n't  run  with  you  in  the 
wind;  for  you  see,  when  I  thought  I  could  have  you  to 


380  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


keep,  nine  weeks  ago,  I  was  too  drunk  with  happiness  at 
the  wonder  of  your  loving  me  still  —  just  at  the  sight  of 
you  —  to  see  anything  surely  aright.  Yet  when  I  did  what 
I  felt  sure  was  right,  two  years  ago,  trouble  came  to  you. 
You  say  I  made  a  mistake.  So  do  I,  when  I  think  of  the 
trouble.  And  yet  —  George  Deming  says  that  a  man  who 
has  done  a  hard  thing  because  it  honestly  seemed  the  right, 
can't  have  made  a  mistake  '  in  the  final  sense.'  That 's  the 
top  of  faith,  I  reckon;  but  if  my  Best  Friend  can  reach  it, 
I  '11  pull  myself  up  after  her  somehow.  And  you  must  have 
reached  it,  for  you  said  '  If  it 's  a  mistake,  we  '11  justify  it.' 
Well,  and  if  we  believed  that,  it  would  mean  —  for  both 
of  us  —  the  possibility  of  a  life  turned  from  bitterness  and 
failure  to  a  good  account.  So  I  will.  If  you  set  out  to 
justify  my  own  mistake,  shall  I  lag  behind  ?  You  '11  be 
patient,  and  strong  to  '  do  out  the  duty ',  whatever  it  is ;  and 
the  knowing  that,  helps  me  to  do  my  part.  It  goes  without 
saying  that  the  duty  won't  be  easy.  It  will  be  easier  for  us 
both,  I  think,  if  we  don't  write.  I  shall  hear  of  you  through 
the  George  Demings,  whom  I  wish  you  could  live  near,  for 
they  are  the  sort  that  help.  Perhaps  they  can  help  your 
husband  to  win  you.  But  whatever  you  do,  remember  this, — 
that  my  belief  that  you  '11  somehow  '  justify  my  mistake,'  is 
what  turns  my  own  life  from  utter  failure  to  hope  and  new 
purpose.  Dear,  you  must  understand  it  —  that  through  you, 
all  the  best  in  my  life  has  come.  I  don't  know  how  to  say 
it,  but  it  is  so  that  even  if  you  loved  some  one  else  better 
than  me,  I  'd  still  have  you  here  at  the  core  of  me,  and  be 
the  happier  for  having  known  you,  even  apart  from  you 
as  I  am,  losing  what  many  call  the  best  of  life.  If  I  could 
believe  that  your  life  hasn't  been  spoiled, — that  you  feel, 
like  me,  that  the  best  isn't  lost  after  all  —  But  you  are  so 
great-hearted  that  I  have  to  believe  it  of  you;  and  just  that 
keeps  me  —  well,  as  happy  as  most  men,  maybe.  Isn't  love 
queer,  that  way !  I  reckon  it  means  there  's  more  of  it  com- 
ing in  the  next  world." 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

WHO  MAY  BE  GARDENERS  OF  PARADISE 

"  Stories  of  fairies  and  gnomes,"  said  Mrs.  Deming, 
"  are  unfit  even  for  sick  children.  If  I  'd  known  those 
were  what  Mrs.  Royce  —  I  shall  call  her  that,  what- 
ever she  calls  herself  —  If  I  'd  known  those  were  what 
she  was  going  to  tell  her  hospital  children,  I  'd  have 
urged  my  son  George  against  it." 

And  the  Ladies'  Aid  understood  this  sibylline 
utterance,  having  discussed  It  some  twenty-four  times 
in  the  past  twelve  months.  They  knew,  for  instance, 
that  It  stood  on  the  list  of  philanthropic  organizations 
of  a  neighboring  city,  and  that  the  Rev.  George 
Deming  had  established  It  himself,  by  means  of  a 
fund  which  some  one  —  name  not  published  —  had 
given  him  for  that  purpose.  "No  need  to  publish  the 
name,"  said  Mrs.  Deming's  sister.  "  But  if  it  was 
Julian  Furness's  idea  —  " 

"  It  was  n't,"  said  Gray  Deming.  "  It  was  mine. 
When  I  saw  what  a  talent  she  had  for  amusing  chil- 
dren —  even  Louie !  —  it  just  all  came  to  me  at  once. 
And  George  and  Julian  just  carried  it  out.  And 
Julian  said  he  'd  have  given  the  money  for  such  a 

381 


382  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


charity,  whether  my  friend  Zandrie  had  been  in 
question  for  the  position  or  not.  But  of  course  she 
was  just  the  one,  so  George  —  " 

"You  mean,"  her  mother-in-law  interrupted,  "that 
stories  of  fairies  and  gnomes,  told  every  day  to  sick 
children  .  .  .  Well !  —  all  I  can  say  is,  that 
what  a  man  of  Julian  Furness's  sterling  qualities  — 
and  my  son  George  —  can  find  to  admire  in  that 
flighty  young  woman  —  " 

"  And  my  husband !  "     Mrs.  Summers  interrupted. 

"  And  her  husband !  "  Mrs.  Deming's  sister  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Summers.  "  Though  to  be  sure,  it  looks 
now  as  of  Dr.  Royce  —  " 

"  Please,  Myra,  let  me  finish  my  sentences,"  said 
Mrs.  Deming.  "I  was  saying  —  I  've  always  said  — 
that  Dr.  Royce  was  much  to  be  pitied  —  " 

"  Because  he  married  her  ?  —  or  because,  having 
married  her,  he  could  n't  have  her  ?  —  or  because,  now 
that  he  does  n't  want  to  have  her,  he 's  getting  a 
divorce?  I  think  it  was  perfectly  dog-in-the-manger- 
ish  not  to  get  it  sooner,  especially  as  it  was  so  easy." 

"  If  you  would  let  me  finish,"  Mrs.  Deming  began 
patiently  —  But  the  unforeseen  and  tempestuous 
entrance  of  Zandrie  almost  finished  Mrs.  Deming  her- 
self. 

Zandrie  got  Gray  out  into  the  hall.  "  Any  letter 
this  week?  " 


GARDENERS    OF    PARADISE  383 

Gray  shook  her  head.  "  You  did  n't  desert  your 
poor  sick  kiddies  just  to  ask  - 

"O  dear  no !  "     Zandrie  had  her  arms  about  her 
and  was  laughing.     "  And  I  '11  tell  them  about  the 
darlingest,    hunchiest    goblin    tomorrow. 
Gray !  —  what  was  the  really  real  reason  why  Julian 
went  ?  " 

"  Why  —  why,  because  you  and  Dr.  Royce  —  " 

"  Got  married  once,  by  a  wedding  service  and 
promises  I  did  n't  even  understand.  No  more  mar- 
ried than  that.  No;  and  the  realest  reason  was  just 
that  Julian  's  a  most  stupid  man,  and  thought,  because 
France  never  rode  horseback  too  fast  on  an  icy  road 
—  he  honestly  thought  France  would  make  me  a  better 
husband !  So  he  was  bound  to  give  him  every  chance. 
There  may  have  been  other  reasons  at  the  time,  too. 
But  now  that  France  finds  he  absolutely  can't  have  me 
ever  —  Now  that  Julian  knows  he 's  not  keeping  us 
apart,  and  France  wants  to  give  up  trying  —  is  all  out 
of  patience  —  for  I  've  never  even  let  him  see  me,  you 
know,  this  year  and  a  half  —  " 

It  was  wonderful  to  see,  how  Gray's  eyes  were 
shining;  but  what  she  said  was  "  Poor  France." 

"  Pity  France  ?  Well,  yes !  —  because  he  never 
could  know  —  what  Julian  and  I  know, —  not  even 
when  he  marries  some  one  else.  And  think  how 
miserable  he  'd  have  been  with  me !  It  takes  an 
arrogant,  terrible  man  like  Julian,  to  keep  me  in  order. 


384  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


And  Gray,  darling !  Now  that  there  's  no  possible 
good  reason  .  .  .  Oh,  I  've  thought  a  lot,  this 
year  and  a  half,  about  right  and  wrong.  Think  of 
that!  And  I  know  absolutely  and  forever  that  it 
would  have  been  wrong  —  wrong  —  to  have  lived 
with  France.  We  never  were  really  married  in  any 
way,  and  never  could  be  married  in  heart.  And  I 
know  there  's  no  wrong  in  cancelling  such  a  no-mar- 
riage. But  I  Ve  waited  patiently  for  France  to 
lose  patience,  because  Julian  wanted  me  to.  And 
meanwhile  .  .  ." 

"Well?"  said  Gray. 

"  I  've  made  the  strangest  discoveries !  Remember 
what  George  said  —  that  the  best  flowers  grew  in  the 
Garden  of  Lost  Delight?  " 

"Of  course  I  remember  what  George  says." 

"Well,  he  was  mistaken!  —  though  Julian  himself 
thought  he  was  right  —  I  know  that  from  his  letter 
of  a  year  and  half  ago.  But  the  strange  thing  is,  the 
best  flowers  grow  in  a  Place  beyond  the  Garden. 
Only,  you  have  to  go  through  the  Garden  to  get  to  it. 
And  you  can't  possibly  get  to  it  even  then,  unless 
you've  seen  the  flowers  in  the  Garden,  and  seen  that 
they  're  very  fair,  and  picked  them  to  keep.  They're 
your  passport  to  the  Place  beyond  the  Garden.  And 
Julian  has  picked  them  all.  But  could  his  dear,  great 
soul  be  less  great  for  having  the  flowers  of  its  delight 
at  last  ?  Gray  darling,  are  n't  you  proud  to  know 
such  a  man  ?  " 


GARDENERS    OF    PARADISE     385 

"  Very  proud." 

"  Oh,  I  love  you!  .  .  .  And  what  if  a  man  like 
that  loved  you  ?  " 

"  George  does"  said  his  loyal  wife. 

Zandrie  laughed.  "  I  'm  glad  you  don't  quite  un- 
derstand Julian.  And  that 's  another  queer  thing  — 
that  if  we  'd  had  each  other  any  sooner  than  right 
now,  I  should  n't  have  understood  him  myself.  He 
thinks,  you  see ;  and  I  'd  have  made  him  quite  un- 
happy if  I  could  n't  do  it  sometimes  too.  It 's  what 
I  've  been  doing  this  whole  year  and  a  half !  —  when 
I  have  n't  been  raging  with  impatience.  It 's  lucky 
he  made  me  leave  him  —  blind  that  he  was !  —  three 
years  and  a  half  ago.  But  even  then,  I  never  began 
to  understand  him  till  I  left  him  myself,  a  year  and 
a  half  ago.  No  matter  how  mistaken,  you  see,  he  was 
always  good, —  and  yet  not  mistaken!  Oh,  I  see  it 
all,  at  last!  It's  one  of  the  flowers  I  've  picked  for 
my  passport.  And  another  flower  — " 

"Well?"  said  Gray. 

"  I  've  made  myself  not  hate  and  despise  France, — 
because  Julian  did  n't.  But  even  then,  there 's  no 
telling  how  I  'd  have  scrambled  after  him  through  the 
Garden  without  the  help  of  hope.  And  now  —  and 
now  .  .  .  I  '11  never  tease  him  to  marry  me, 
again ;  but  —  I  've  engaged  a  substitute  for  six 
months,  and  I  shan't  have  money  enough  to  get  back ! 
I  'm  going  to  see  him  —  his  very  self  —  his  very  self 
—  in  Lausanne,  two  weeks  from  to-day.  I  'm  going 


386  Z  A  N  D  R  I  E 


to  make  him  understand  me  at  last, —  that  I'm  all 
grown  up  and  know  my  own  need.  He  could  n't  be 
so  arrogant  as  to  choose  for  me  still !  He  stood  aside 
to  let  me  run  in  the  wind  with  a  man  I  did  n't  love. 
Yet  the  very  first  day  I  saw  Julian,  he  carried  my 
heart  up  a  mountain.  What  do  men  think  we  want? 
He  would  n't  listen,  when  I  told  him.  But  he  '11  not 
wrong  me  so  again.  .  .  .  Two  whole  weeks, 
Gray !  .  .  .  But  they  '11  pass  —  they  '11  pass. 
And  then  —  I  '11  show  him  where  the  perfect  flowers 
grow." 


000  128809 


